


Dear Diary

by Garrae



Category: Castle (TV 2009)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:21:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 80,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25626595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garrae/pseuds/Garrae
Summary: "'Dear Diary. I'm so tired. There's so much to learn as a detective, and I'm still bailing Dad out. I told him last night was the last time, and I really meant it. I keep going back to the file but I can't see anything more. I'm missing something, I know I am.'A chill ran down Castle's spine. He frantically turned pages to the next entry."Pre-series AU meeting.CastleFicathon2020
Relationships: Kate Beckett/Richard Castle
Kudos: 34





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Previously posted on FF.net

It was just lying there. Small, black, almost invisible on the corner table.

Richard Castle, author, almost famous – his books were selling in their millions, but so far his face wasn’t instantly recognisable to the interested bystander on the street – had taken the table, perfectly placed to observe the world passing by while eating a hurried lunch, and only after he’d sat down had he noticed the small black book. He hadn’t really noticed the previous occupant: just a flick of dark spiky hair on a tall woman, on her phone, talking urgently but too low for him to hear anything, not that he’d ever considered he’d need to listen to her, then dashing out into the bright April day.

The book was just lying there – not a book, a diary. Surely she’d dash back to collect it? He ordered his lunch, ate it, looking at the diary every minute or so and forcibly not opening it, but as he drank a final coffee, she still hadn’t returned; and the diary was still lying there.

He should hand it in to the staff. He had no reason at all to think that they weren’t reliable, so they’d be sure to give it back to its owner, who’d be sure to return here for it.

And yet…he could find her, and give it back. It would be fun – a mystery of his very own to solve, where he didn’t know the ending. Curiosity, his besetting sin, was nibbling at his neurons, nagging him to play this game. Whoever she was, she might be…well, she’d been tall, and now he thought about it, slender, and if she was pretty too, then, well, who knew where it might lead?

He wouldn’t start it now, he decided, though his fingers itched and burned to open it. He’d take it home, and look in private. He paid the check, slipped the diary into his pocket, and hastened home.

Home, though, was a ferment of high emotion and higher voices, and in the confusion, hubbub and outright hysteria caused by a broken string on his daughter’s violin, he forgot about the diary.

String fixed – temporarily, at least until Alexis’s violin teacher could do it properly – Castle slid between his sheets in his – still quite new – beautiful, now-I-can-live-the-way-I-wanted-to, loft, and settled down to sleep, eyes drifting closed, perfectly peaceful –

The diary! He jerked into full wakefulness, and grabbed a robe to search it out: finding it in the pocket of his sport coat, and took it back to bed with him. He’d just look to see if it had a name, or better yet an address or phone number.

There wasn’t. Well…that just made it more of a fun challenge. In the morning, he’d start to investigate, just like a PI would. It was going to be fun. Picking up all the clues from the diary and finding its owner, who would be happy to have it returned. 

He fell asleep smiling.

***

In the morning, after breakfast, he had some qualms. Diaries were, in general, private. It felt a touch intrusive, to be reading a stranger’s diary. But then again, he self-justified, she was a stranger – and anyway it might not even have been hers. It could be anyone’s diary: he’d _thought_ that she’d been at his table, but honestly, he wasn’t sure.

Eventually, curiosity defeated conscience, and, accompanied by another coffee, he sat at his desk, pen and paper (for notes and clues) at hand.

He opened the diary. Then he closed it. Surely if he was going to imitate a PI, he should examine the physical attributes of the diary first, for clues. He briefly regretted that he had neither an insufflator nor fingerprint powder – and anyway, he had no access to a fingerprint database if he did.

Or…did he? He could always try to persuade Roy. It wasn’t likely to work, but it was worth a go. Maybe there’d be some newbie on Roy’s team – hadn’t he said he’d picked up a brand new detective, a real hot-shot? Maybe he’d help. Roy’s face had indicated that he might be a hot-shot, but there was something wrong – causing Roy a bit of a problem, Castle had intuited. Maybe it wasn’t such a long shot after all.

Anyway, he thought to himself, back to the diary. He thought for a moment, and then wandered upstairs to raid Alexis’s bathroom for talcum powder, then thought again and went back down to the kitchen for flour. Less likely to cause domestic disharmony, flour – and easier to replace.

Before dousing it in flour, he inspected the cover carefully. Plain black, with a slight texture. No brand name, which was deeply disappointing. As he’d already discovered, no name inside. He put the diary back on his desk and tapped out a little flour over it, shook it gently, and looked at the now-revealed prints. Some, of course, would be his. That would be easy for Roy’s hot-shot to exclude. He bounced a little at the thought of being fingerprinted, without also being dressed down for some minor misdemeanour (or borrowing a police horse). He took precise photos with his phone, ensuring that all the detail was in sharp focus, and then saved them down.

Finally, he opened the first page, and began to read.

_Dear Diary. What a cliché. Doesn’t matter, though. Nothing matters now._

The ink trailed off. Castle squinted at the page, detecting a slight deformation, as if the page had been wet, then dried – as if its owner had been weeping when they wrote it. Already, he didn’t like the tone of the entry.

 _You can’t think like that!_ he thought at the entry. _Of course something must matter._ But the rest of the page was blank.

Chilled, he made himself another hot coffee, clasping his hands around the mug, searching for warmth. He _really_ didn’t like the tone of the entry. It sounded…defeated. Hopeless. He wanted to tell the writer that life wasn’t like that. It was good – there was always hope, always a reason for joy. Now, he didn’t believe this diary belonged to the woman he’d seen – she’d been focused: speaking and moving with purpose and passion. She hadn’t been hopeless or defeated. Any last little tinge of guilt that he should have handed the book in to the café staff slipped away. He had to find this person: had to change their view.

Of course, maybe that was just one bad day. He turned the page.

 _Dear Diary. Still a cliché. Who cares? I don’t. Dad’s drunk again. I picked him up from the tank, again. He didn’t know me. I should stop. He doesn’t care._ There were more of the slight indentations, a touch of mottling, a tiny smudge on the writing.

Castle made a note. _Alcoholic father_. His first clue. Not exactly determinative, but it was a start. _You can’t cure it_ , he thought, born of knowledge of early friends, who’d dropped away, dropped out, and in some cases dropped dead. He couldn’t help them, and they wouldn’t help themselves, but it had taken him time to learn that their decision wasn’t his choice or his fault.

But it wasn’t quite as bad as the previous entry. _I should stop_. That implied that they weren’t going to stop, and, he theorised, that family _mattered_ to them. A note of hope, maybe? At least not such unrelenting gloom. He turned another page, and then a few more, all blank.

_Dear Diary. Today I made detective. Finally reached my goal. I’ll be able to investigate, and finally get some answers. Maybe then Dad’ll stop drinking._

Castle smiled. Hope burned through every word: even the handwriting was, somehow, happier. He made another note – _Detective_ – he checked the diary date – on February 25. Now that was a much more tangible clue. There couldn’t be that many – could there? Roy would tell him, anyway. Roy was happy to answer his questions, and Castle needn’t even tell him that this wasn’t book research.

But what did the writer want to investigate, or get answers to? Detective covered a multitude of crimes – Robbery, or Narcotics, or even Homicide – oooohhhhh, if it was Homicide that would be –

 _Not_ amazing. Horrible. Because the only possible explanation for _get some answers_ in that situation was that someone close to the writer had been murdered, and that was definitely _not_ a subject for his usual enthusiasm. (A small portion of his writing brain said _but it would be great to meet them and hear all about their work_. He squished it.)

Somehow, it had gotten to be lunchtime. This PI-pretence was fun, Castle thought, pushing away the idea that his missing modern-day Pepys had suffered tragedy, and he’d even found two clues. He made himself some lunch, and took it back to his study and the diary, making sure he didn’t drop anything on the book.

He flipped past several blank pages, then more, then more. Two months, more or less, of nothing, which was irritating. He wanted progress. Clues. Immediate answers.

This wasn’t one of his books. He didn’t _have_ the answers, and he didn’t like it. He was so used to having the answer in the back of his head – or on his outline – that he’d forgotten what it felt like _not_ to solve a mystery. The solution, of course, was just the same as it had been when he was a child – read on.

Only a couple of weeks ago, there was a bleak entry.

_Dear Diary. I’m so tired. There’s so much to learn as a detective, and I’m still bailing Dad out. I told him last night was the last time, and I really meant it. I keep going back to the file but I can’t see anything more. I’m missing something, I know I am. But I’m so tired and I just can’t do it tonight. I can’t lose my job, I worked so hard to get it. I have to sleep, but then I’ll dream. I hate the nightmares. I wish… I wish I never had to go to sleep again, never dreamed._

_I can’t save Dad. What good am I if I can’t save Dad? He’ll die if he doesn’t stop drinking. If he does…what’s the point? I might as well be dead too._

A chill ran down Castle’s spine. He frantically turned pages to the next entry, a week later.

 _Dear Diary. I’m fucked. M caught me in the Archives. He said if I look at Mom’s murder_ –

Oh, fuck. Their _mother_? The writer’s _mother_ had been murdered? Oh, _fuck._

_\- again, he’ll bench me. I can’t bear to be benched. He was so disappointed. I could have dealt with anger. But now I’ll never find out._

_I might as well be dead. Dad’s drunk, and now he hates me because I told him I wouldn’t go get him. Mom’s dead, and I can’t find her killer. Even on the job, now I’ve got a black mark, card marked. I might as well die._

_I’ve got no reason to live. No-one would miss me. Dad wouldn’t even notice I was gone._

Castle stopped reading. He had to find this person. He had to. They were on the fast track to talking themselves into suicide. He took a glance at his watch, and found it was mid-afternoon. Roy should be around.

“Hey, Roy.”

“Rick? Why’re you calling me?”

“Thought you might want a drink this evening, and a chance to win back what you lost last week.”

“And?” Roy asked.

“And I’ve got some questions for you.”

“Thought so.” Roy sighed. “Okay. But I want the good whiskey.”

“Sure,” Castle said expansively, momentarily cheerful.

It wasn’t till he cut the call that his worry returned. Okay, he’d pulled Roy in, but urgency grabbed at his guts. Whoever his diarist was, they were in deep shit. He had to find them.

Save them, whoever they were.

If he could.

He slumped, and then forced himself to re-read every entry, searching for clues, hints, _anything_ that would lead him to the writer. Convince them there were reasons to live. There were always reasons to live. Even in the darkest days, there was – there _had to be_ – a possibility for joy. Otherwise, what was the point? But this diarist had lost all hope. No family, no mention of friends, or colleagues, except for a boss known only as M. If, though, they were a detective, then M could be their boss – must be, to be able to bench them. So that meant – oh. Any sergeant, or lieutenant, or captain, or higher. Not a small cohort to search through, but maybe Roy had access…

So. He knew the date they made detective, that their dad was an alcoholic, that their mother was murdered, and that they had some sort of a boss or superior with the initial M. And he probably had their fingerprints. He’d better ask Roy if the NYPD had a database of its police detectives’ fingerprints. He wrote down everything he wanted to ask, and left the list in a drawer, with the diary, for later, swapping it out for the pack of cards.

Roy arrived shortly after dinner, bestowed an uncle-style hug on Alexis and was then ushered into Castle’s study before Alexis could ask overly-intrusive or embarrassing questions, though she would have had an excuse, being only just ten.

“Whiskey?” Castle asked, already reaching for the bottle.

“Sure. I guess I’ll be paying for it one way or another, in dollars or in information.” Roy grinned. “So which is it going to be?”

“Information.”

“Oh? I thought Storm was a PI, not a police officer?” Castle squirmed a little. “Rick? What aren’t you telling me _this_ time?” Roy glared at him, and Castle squirmed a lot more.

“Uh…I found this diary, and I wanna get it back to its owner.” 

“And?” Roy waited.

“Whoever it is,” Castle squeezed out of his closing throat, “they’ve got real problems. It sounds like they’re right on the edge.”

“So? You’re not normally too bothered about playing the rescuer. What makes this one different?”

“I…I wanna know their story,” Castle realised. “I gotta give it a better ending.”

Roy raised eyebrows at him. “So it’s just another story?”

“No! But…I can’t just let them drown without at least letting them know they’ve been heard.”

Roy clapped slowly. “Well, well. Chest-signing celebrity Castle has a conscience. Better not tell your publisher, she’ll excise it with a blunt pair of scissors. Nice to know you’re not just a playboy.” He grinned. “Not that I mind you being a rich playboy when I’m rooking you at Texas Hold ‘Em.”

“I’ve won every game!” Castle squawked. “You and Judge Markaway have more tells than William had apples.”

Roy laughed. “Gotcha. Now, what do you know about this person – and don’t try to tell me you didn’t read the whole diary, ‘cause I won’t believe you on principle. You’re as nosey as all get-out and the last time you met a scruple you probably deep-fried it and ate it.”

“No, it’s a very tiny apothecary’s measure,” Castle said absently.

“I don’t wanna know about something from the Dark Ages. What about this suicidal” – Castle jerked, and his mouth pinched – “diarist?”

“I know they’re a cop – a detective.”

Roy came to attention. “Okay, _now_ I’m in. I don’t want any cops running around when they’re not up to it. Too much chance of them going off the rails or over the edge.” Thought skated across his face, and his lips tightened. 

Castle noticed. “What’s up?”

“No… nothing. Just a thought, but it’s not for now.” He shook his head. “What else? Detective doesn’t exactly give us much to go on.”

“They only made detective on February 25 this year.”

“That would be the last round. That narrows it down a bit, but there are still a lot of options. That it?”

“No.” Castle gathered himself, and stared at the table. “Uh…whoever it is, their dad’s an alcoholic and their mom was murdered.” When he looked back up, Roy’s face was worried. “And likely I’ve got their fingerprints.”

“How?” If Castle hadn’t looked down again, he’d have seen the fast calculations running through Roy’s face, and his absolute terror of the answer.

“Uh…I floured the cover, real lightly, and took photos. I mean, some are mine, obviously, but do you maybe have prints from the detectives?”

“Nope.”

“Oh.” Castle’s face fell.

“Still looking for the easy option, Rick?”

“I just wanna help. Even if I only get them their diary back, it’ll show them that good things happen too.”

“And what did you want me to do?”

“Well,” Castle wriggled and hitched, “um…you said you had that new detective, your hotshot who made it faster than anyone ever, and I thought maybe if he wasn’t too busy” –

“She.”

“She? Okay, if _she_ wasn’t too busy, she could maybe help me find whoever this is…”

“So lemme get this straight. You want me to let you work with my newest detective, who _should_ be working on cases, on this data matching chase, because you’ve got a bug up your ass that they’re going off the edge.”

“Uh, yes?”

“Uh, no.”

“But” –

“Wait one second till I’m done. No, you can’t do it in working time. _But_ , you can come and meet her and see if she’ll help you off the clock. I’ll approve her using the databases.”

Castle pouted at him. “That the best you can do?”

“Yep, and that’s pushing the envelope.”

Deep in his manipulative brain, Roy prayed that Castle would take the bait – he didn’t usually back down from a challenge. Roy _could_ tell him that he knew exactly who the diary belonged to – but he wasn’t going to, because he was terrified that his new hotshot was about to do something…permanent. He, Roy, needed a better solution than simply giving her back her diary, and it looked like it was sitting right in front of him, nervously shuffling a pack of cards.

“We’ll need to be a little cute about it, though. In fact, it’s more of a training exercise,” Roy said, and smiled evilly. “We’ll tell her that you’re researching for a book, and you want to know how to track down a diary.”

“I guess,” Castle said doubtfully. “But shouldn’t we find this guy as fast as we can?”

“Ah, well. That’s the cute bit. I’ll use all of your information to find them, and make sure they’re okay. It shouldn’t take me too long. And I’ll get a chance to see how my newest detective does with hardly any information, step by step. Let’s start with just the fingerprints, hmm?”

“Well” –

“I can insist they go to a shrink, or bench them, or take a whole lot of action that you can’t. Think, Rick! I know it’s hard for you to see past your enthusiasm, but how’s someone gonna react to you turning up and saying _Hey, I found your diary and I wanna save you_ , huh? If they don’t shoot you, they’ll have you committed, or arrested. I don’t guess you want to be bailed out by your mom again, do you?”

“Not in front of my daughter.”

“Mm.” Roy nodded. “Now, how about I fleece you at poker for a while, and I’ll have some of that whiskey you’re hiding too.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Detective Beckett!”

Beckett jumped. What did Montgomery want with her? Surely he wasn’t going to take more steps? She hadn’t been to Archives since he’d caught her. Obedience to orders took her to his office, where she stood to stiff attention.

“At ease, Beckett.” He looked at her kindly. “I have a tricky assignment, which has been foisted on me. I’m asking you to take this on, but I can’t order you.” He made a displeased face. “I don’t know if you’ve heard of Richard Castle, the writer?”

“Yes, sir.” _Richard Castle_? Her mom – she turned hard away from that memory. Bursting into tears in _any_ part of the precinct was unprofessional. In her Captain’s office, it would be fatal.

“Yeah. Z-list celebrity, but moving up the alphabet, playboy. Well, he’s managed to talk the NYPD into letting him do some research here, and we need to play along for the good PR.”

“Sir,” Beckett said blankly.

“However, I don’t want him impeding our cases. He’s not a cop and he’s not going to be a cop. That’s why this is a big ask.” Montgomery regarded her. “The only way he can research is in non-shift time.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. I’m asking you to let him deal with you for research, outside your mandated shifts. Keep a record of your hours, and I’ll approve the overtime. You can use the databases. I’ll clear it.”

Beckett looked at her Captain and at the floor. She didn’t want to deal with a spoilt playboy, but maybe if she did this it would make up for the black mark of being discovered looking into her mother’s case. She couldn’t afford another black mark by turning it down.

“Yes, sir. I’ll do it.” Montgomery looked remarkably relieved. “Uh, is there something more I should know?”

“No, no. Try not to let him get killed or injured. He’s a bit of a loose cannon, but he’s got a kid who’d be devastated if he wasn’t there.”

Beckett winced. She’d been – was – that kid. “Yes, sir.”

“I’ll let you know when he’s arriving, but if I were you, I wouldn’t make plans for this evening. Likely he’ll be here the first moment he’s allowed to be. Did I mention overbearing enthusiasm?”

“No, sir.”

“Oh. Well. That too. If you have any problems, let me know. You might need to eat with him. Make sure he pays. God knows those books of his are popular enough, and if he wants to _research_ then he can at least make sure you’re fed and watered.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dismissed.”

Beckett left smartly. 

Behind her, Roy Montgomery smiled evilly, and considered how lucky it had been that Rick Castle had found Beckett’s diary. Now he’d gotten a close look at her, she was drawn and tense, and her make-up wasn’t quite concealing the dark circles under her eyes. He wondered how long she’d been burning the candle at both ends: working all shifts and overtime on cases, and then burying herself in the Archives. And bailing out her father, of course. The duty sergeant at the precincts where he was thrown in the tank kept Roy briefed on that. Come to think of it, he hadn’t heard anything for a week or two… maybe he should check up if he’d still heard nothing for another week. He made a quick entry in his electronic calendar, and turned to the never-ending work of a Captain.

Out in the bullpen, Beckett sat down at her desk and tried to recover breath and some brain function. She took a minute, went to the restroom, and laid her cheek against the cold tiles of the wall, waiting for her head to stop spinning and the nausea to fade. Babysitting a spoilt playboy. Great. At least she’d get paid for the overtime – not that she had anything she’d care enough to spend the money on. She couldn’t force her dad to rehab, and that was the only thing that would improve anything. He kept calling her… but she wouldn’t go. She was already drowning, and he’d just drag her down faster.

Not that that mattered, either. No Mom, no real Dad. No hope of helping either, or getting justice. She might as well help Richard Castle research. It wasn’t like she had anything else to do.

All she had was her job, now, and even that was pretty tenuous. She’d wanted to be a detective to solve her mom’s case – and she wasn’t able to. Not just forbidden, but she’d been stymied. There was nothing to get hold of. Nothing to tug on.

Why bother with the job? Why bother with anything? Her life had been heading down the toilet for years, so what did it matter if she’d been put on babysitting duty? No-one would miss her if she took a bullet.

And she’d lost her diary, which had been keeping her marginally stable. If she wrote it down, wrote it out, she could cope for another day, another night. It held her to life when she was off-shift: on-shift, she was busy enough not to remember, not to care. She had no idea where she’d left it, or dropped it. Not in the bullpen, she hoped. The entries would be enough to have her benched and sent to psych, if not fired. She couldn’t have left it here – or it hadn’t been found, if she had. There were still plenty of cops who weren’t impressed with how fast she’d been bumped up to detective, and they weren’t at all shy about putting her down or shoving her around. They wouldn’t hesitate to screw her over by giving the diary to the Captain.

Though, that way she might have got it back. If she’d lost it on the streets of Manhattan, she’d lost it forever. If she’d left it in Remy’s, the staff would have picked it up when they cleared the table, and she didn’t really remember who’d passed her on her way out – some man, big, broad, brown hair; but she’d been on the phone, called to a scene by a senior detective, and in the rush of a new case, had been energised, intent – and might have left the diary. She’d go check – oh. She’d missed lunch, again, and Montgomery had made it clear that Richard Castle would most likely turn up at the moment shift ended. She couldn’t go check at Remy’s today, until really late, when she’d got rid of the man.

She didn’t want to see him. Regardless of Montgomery’s denigrations, her mother had read his books, and introduced them to Beckett, who had her mother’s collection plus all the rest. Seeing the author would bite down on the open wound of her grief, reminding her of her mother every minute. But she had said she would do it, and she couldn’t back out now.

She put her head down and worked, giving her all to every order from the senior detectives.

***

“Rick Castle,” Castle said to the phone.

“Rick,” came back Montgomery’s tones. “I’ve fixed it for you. You can start asking Detective Beckett – Kate Beckett – all your questions as soon as shift finishes” –

“When? Today? What time? Now?”

“At five-thirty. Not now. And you need to know some stuff first.”

“What?”

“She thinks you’ve been foisted on me, by the higher-ups, and that I’m not impressed.”

“Oh.”

“And I might have called you a Z-list celebrity” –

“Roy! I’m on the A-list now.”

“Not yet, you aren’t. When you’re papped in the street you’ll be A-list.”

Castle growled. He was getting there. He’d been approached for his autograph in half a dozen restaurants in the last month, and the more he did what Paula and Gina suggested, the more fame – or notoriety – he garnered.

“Anyway, five-thirty. And you leave _me_ to find out about the diary. You just ask questions about how you would find a person. One last thing – don’t let on you know me. If Beckett thinks that we play poker every week, she’ll never ease up enough for you to get proper answers. She’ll be on the watch so that she doesn’t so much as misplace a comma, in case I hear about it.”

“I get it.”

“Good. Seeya later, Rick.”

Castle set an alarm for five, to give him time to get to Roy’s precinct – the Twelfth – and then, that done, looked at the phone. Mixed with his delight that he’d get to ask all his questions of a real detective was a certain degree of uneasiness. Sure, Roy was right about Roy being the right man to deal with the troubled cop, but it all seemed a little, well, contrived. He wondered what Roy was hiding, but then he had an idea for Storm, and everything went out of his head except the story.

The alarm pulled him back into reality from his Storm-world. He made himself ready, threw on a sport coat, and bounced out full of hope.

***

“Detective Beckett.” Montgomery summoned her at shift end. She went on the word.

“Sir?”

“This is Richard” –

“Call me Rick” – he turned around.

“Castle.”

“Mr Castle,” she said politely, struggling to hide her shock. He was exactly like the picture on the back of the books. She couldn’t collapse here, but pain stabbed through her.

“This is Detective Kate Beckett,” Montgomery said to Mr Castle. “She’ll answer your questions when she’s not on shift, Mr Castle. In return, you’re at liberty to provide her with food and drink – if she agrees.”

“Sure.”

Castle took a good look at Detective Beckett – and tried not to swallow his tongue. Then he _did_ try to swallow it, mainly to stop it from trailing, drooling, on the floor. She was _gorgeous_. She was also very like the woman who’d dashed out of the café, on the phone, all hard purpose and intent. She might even _be_ that woman.

This was going to be _great_.

He gave Detective Beckett – now, what should he call her? He couldn’t call her Detective Beckett all the time, and he certainly didn’t want to be called Mr Castle. Far too formal. Maybe they’d be Kate and Rick? – a million-watt smile, which always got a smile in return.

Except here, it seemed. It got a half-hearted movement of lip, and then nothing. Her face returned to cool repose.

“Dismissed, Detective.”

“Sir.” 

She looked at Castle. “We can go to a conference room,” she said, and led the way, heels (high heels? How could she run in those?) clicking decisively across the floor. “Coffee?” she said, half way there, and turned to a small break room with a coffee machine.

“Please. Uh, you could call me Rick.”

“How do you take it, Mr Castle?”

Ouch. That wasn’t exactly welcoming. “Cappuccino, please.”

“The machine gives you white or black. This isn’t a coffee bar and I’m not a barista. Sugar or not?”

“White, no sugar, thanks.”

She tapped buttons: quick, precise, firm, and handed him a plastic cup with an indeterminately brown fluid. It didn’t look or smell like coffee. Hers was black. He took a slug – and almost spat it back out again. It was _vile_. Detective Beckett threw hers back in one mouthful and started for the conference room again. Castle unobtrusively ditched the liquid and followed.

“So, Mr Castle, what do you want to know?”

“Look, do you have to be so formal? I won’t tell the higher-ups if you don’t. Call me Rick. Or…well, what would you call me if I was another cop? Can’t you call me that?”

“If you were a cop, you wouldn’t be here.”

“No, but I am. So what would you call me?”

“Castle.”

“Not Rick?”

“No.”

“So could I call you Beckett, then? As if I were a cop? And you could call me Castle.” 

She shut the door, turning to him, oddly uncertain, and then a switch flipped and she was all steely purpose and tight wrapped again. “Okay.”

“Great. Look, you know why I’m here, yeah?”

“Research. You wanna ask questions.”

“Yeah. Right now, I wanna know how you’d find someone.”

“Find someone? You want Missing Persons for that.”

“C’mon. Where would you start?”

Detective Beckett’s eyes went cool. As she thought, Castle looked her over. Dark, spiky, shortish hair; huge eyes, emphasised by make-up, cheekbones to cut rock – and dark shadows under the long, long lashes. Full lips, not coloured. To his amazement, his body twitched, rose and filled. Something about this tall, chilly brunette was talking to all of his baser instincts, and it was saying _think you can handle it_? _Think you can handle me? Think again._

He loved a challenge, but she didn’t even know she was issuing one. In fact, she wasn’t registering him at all. Her eyes snapped back into focus.

“Take notes,” she ordered. “I might have to answer your questions but I’m not wasting my time, or the NYPD’s, by doing it twice.”

Wow. That was laying it down hard. ( _You’d like to lay her down – hard_ , his back brain said.) “Okay.” He _wanted_ to say – _be nice to me, because I’m pals with the brass_ , but he somehow didn’t think that would cut even a sliver of ice with her. She wasn’t impressed by him, and she wasn’t going to pretend that she was. Though…it wasn’t exactly that. It was more… ah. She was locked down tighter than the Fed’s gold reserves. Her fingers were twisted together, and her legs crossed at knee and ankle. ( _How much legs? She’s all legs_ , his back brain commented again. _You like legs…_ He firmly told the voice to shut up.)

“First, do you have any clues who the person is? Do you know them?”

“No. I’ve never met them.”

“ _You’ve_ never met them?”

“Easier when I’m plotting to be the protagonist. I can say Storm’s never met them, if you like?”

There was a tiny hint of stiffness, a fraction of a wince. “Doesn’t matter. Use ‘I’ if you want.” She paused. “Okay. Never met. How do you know they exist?”

“They left traces.”

“Traces.” She didn’t sound impressed. “How d’you know? Do you mean the remains of their lunch, or graffiti, or what?”

Castle thought fast. “Storm traps his hotel room and drawers. That was tripped, so he knows someone’s been there.”

“Dust for fingerprints, then. That would be first. Run them through the database, and hope we get a hit. If we do, that’s easy.”

“If not?”

“If this is a villain for your next book, I rather hope he’s smart enough to wear gloves,” Beckett said acidly. “So most likely not. Any CCTV? Not in a hotel room, but possibly in the corridors and lobby, and certainly in the car park and frontage.”

Castle scribbled. “How fast would you get that?”

“You need a warrant, usually – depends how urgent it is. They can be really quick, though if the judge is on the golf course it takes longer.”

Castle stifled a very inappropriate snigger. Judge Markaway’s love of golf was well known. 

“But Storm’s not a cop,” she said – and then slammed her mouth shut.

“You’ve read my books!” Castle gasped. She blushed furiously, and wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“It passed a boring plane ride,” she snarked. “I prefer Tolstoy.”

“No, no. You’ve read my books. You’re blushing. You wouldn’t blush if you hadn’t read more than just one on a plane.” He smirked at her. “You’re a fan.”

“And you’re a spoilt playboy who’s only here to get his questions answered,” she bit, “so can we just get on with it so I can go home?”

“If you want to stop, we can stop,” Castle pointed out. “It’s getting late, and I want to get some dinner.” His smirk changed to a smile. “Do you want something to eat?”

“No, thank you.”

He turned puppy-dog eyes on her. “Sure?”

“I said _no_. Thank you.” She stood up. Castle didn’t, momentarily frozen by the incredible legs in front of him. “I’ll escort you out.”

“Till tomorrow,” he said, as she showed him to the elevator. She didn’t step in.

“Good night.”

The last he saw as the doors closed was her poker-stiff spine walking back towards the break room.

***

Beckett was only too relieved when Richard Castle left. She’d been managing to hold control just _fine_ till she’d admitted she recognised Storm, and then he’d turned into the celebrity author that her mother had stood in line for and it was all too much. She’d had to shut it right down, hard, or fall apart, and she wasn’t going to fall apart.

She tidied her desk, and went home, fell on to her couch and released her emotions.

Some time later, she dropped a final Kleenex in the trash, showered, and went to bed. She didn’t touch the book on her nightstand. Its real-life author, there in the flesh, had resurrected quite enough memories for one day.

Her phone rang. She looked at the unknown number, and declined the call. She _wasn’t_ going to go get her father from the tank. She would _not_. She switched it off, then remembered that the precinct might call, and switched it on again, programming it to _Do Not Disturb_ except for Dispatch’s number, till six a.m. Not that she expected to sleep until then.

Not that she expected to sleep much at all.

***

Castle was a touch disappointed that Detective Beckett wouldn’t come for dinner with him, and more than a touch that she was so indifferent. He could have opened a button shop from her, she was so buttoned-up and buttoned-down. On the other hand, she was definitely a fan, so maybe there was a way to relax her. It was odd, though. She’d been so forceful when she’d been leaving Remy’s, and so focused when the questions had been about the job; but as soon as he’d called her on knowing his books she’d shut right down.

However, he had an opening. He did have fingerprints, and he’d ask Beckett – he _would_ call her Beckett – to run them through the database for him. And – okay, so he couldn’t get a warrant, but maybe if he were nice to the Remy’s servers they’d show him CCTV – if they had it.

He wandered off to Remy’s, which would have the huge advantage that he could get dinner to go – for himself and Alexis: a treat. He felt he deserved one.

Remy’s was unusually quiet, which gave Castle the chance to apply some charm to the servers and then to the manager. He also applied some considerable misdirection, without actually lying, to leave the manager with the impression that he was researching a Storm drop point, to see how likely it was that a paper would be missed in the bustle of lunch hour and the changeovers of tables at a rapid rate. The manager was happy to help, and even agreed that Castle could review the CCTV.

Unfortunately, it didn’t cover the right table. It did, however, quite clearly show Detective Beckett coming in, presumably taking a table, and her taking a call and dashing out, almost exactly coincident with Castle coming in. What it did _not_ show was where she sat. It also showed at least a dozen other people leaving within a few moments of her, and it didn’t show where they sat either. 

“How long does it usually take to clear a table?” Castle asked.

“We try to have every table cleared as soon as the diners leave, but when it’s that busy people sometimes sit down before that happens. It’s not common, but it’s not totally unusual either. It wouldn’t be something you could rely on.”

Castle made a face. “That’s a shame. I’ll need to go back to standard stuff – taping it under a table, or a park bench.”

“Sorry,” the manager said.

“That’s okay.” Castle took his order, left a sizeable tip when the manager wasn’t looking, and went home to find out what disasters or triumphs the day had brought to his daughter.


	3. Chapter 3

Beckett hit the precinct far too early for anyone but her to be there, and buried her head in work. It was all she had to cling to. When she’d listened to the declined call, it had been, as she’d known, another precinct, calling about another drunken episode. Fortunately, she had plenty to do. The senior detective had liberally handed out work, and she had gulped it down and asked for more.

At lunchtime, she took a break – but only because she had to go back to Remy’s and ask if anyone had handed in her diary. She knew it was a long shot before she’d even walked in their door, and she wasn’t wrong.

“No, sorry, Detective. No-one handed in anything,” the server said, having checked with colleagues and their manager.

“Okay, thanks.” She left, hiding her upset, and simply went back to the precinct, buying a sandwich and a coffee worthy of the name on the way. To add insult to injury, that damn writer would undoubtedly show up again at five-thirty on the dot. ( _He’s got nice eyes_ , a voice said in her head. _So what_? she said back. Pretty eyes weren’t going to help her life.) She put her head back down.

At five-thirty precisely she heard the elevator doors open, and a cheerful voice announce, “Is Detective Beckett here?”

“Beckett,” someone called. It sounded like O’Hanrahan. “You got a beau you aren’t telling us about?”

“Nope,” she flicked back.

“She’s over there,” O’Hanrahan said to the happy voice of Richard _oh-God-why-me_ Castle.

“Hey, Beckett,” he bounced. 

“Mr Castle.”

“No, no, no. The deal was, I call you Beckett and you call me Castle. Surely you haven’t forgotten already?”

“I did.”

He actually pouted at her. “You forgot me?”

Her temper flipped on. “Why would I bother remembering? You’re an optional extra. I’m only doing it because I have to. Ask your questions and be done” – her phone rang. She looked down, and didn’t recognise the number; declined the call. While she’d done that, he’d gone…oh. She could just see a large figure in the break room. Shortly, it returned, bearing a single, scalding, black coffee, which arrived under her nose.

“Coffee. I’d go out and get you one that actually fitted the description, but if you threw it at me it would be a waste. If you throw that, it’ll mean you’ll preserve your stomach lining for another half hour.” He grinned. “It’s vile, you know. It’s not coffee at all.”

Unwillingly, he thought, her lips moved in a tiny quirk, swiftly gone. “What do you want to know?” she asked, and it wasn’t wholly hostile. She downed the coffee without a grimace.

“So Storm’s managed to talk the hotel manager into showing him the CCTV footage, but there are several people it could have been. How would you narrow it down?”

“ _I_ would serve the manager a warrant for their names and addresses, then bring them into interview.”

“Storm can’t do that. He could seduce the female” –

“Naturally,” Beckett said aridly –

“desk clerk into telling him, and then visit them.”

Beckett made a sour face. Castle wanted to make a similarly sour face, since that was entirely unhelpful to locating the people who’d been in Remy’s.

“Or he could steal the register.”

“It’s all computerised.”

“Not if he’s in somewhere old-fashioned,” Castle bounced, and let his mouth run on. “He could steal the register – no. The person he’s trying to track stole the register to hide their tracks, but they left it at the truckstop and Storm’s found it. So now he has to find them through the truckstop.”

Beckett sighed. “Implausible.”

“But the register has fingerprints on it,” he carried on. “So he’s taken photos of the fingerprints – like this.” He pulled out his phone and showed Beckett the photos he’d taken. “Could we…?” he said hopefully. “They’re mine.” Well, some of them were.

She was about to snap _No!_ when she remembered Montgomery’s words. “I guess,” she said reluctantly, and began.

“This is so cool!” Castle bounced.

“We’ve got a hit,” Beckett said.

“Really? Who?”

“You.”

“Oh.”

“Why – oh. Stealing a police horse?” Her face had closed over again. “Not exactly mature.”

“The charges were dropped.”

“I bet,” she muttered. “Friends in high places.”

Before he could comment, her phone rang again, she flicked a glance at the screen, and declined the call, hard-eyed.

“Don’t you want to take it?”

“No. I know what it is, and I don’t want it.”

Castle blinked. That sounded…final. Darkly, miserably final. He didn’t like it. It didn’t fit forceful Detective Beckett at all. “What do you want?” he asked. “Proper coffee? Food?”

“N” – her stomach grumbled at her.

“You’re hungry. C’mon. You can answer my questions over a burger. There’s this diner just along the street – Remy’s” –

“I know it.”

“Great, let’s go.”

“I” –

“C’mon. Your stomach’s rumbling and you have to eat. You’ll waste away and then who’ll answer all my questions?”

“Someone else,” she muttered.

“But then you wouldn’t have any fun.”

“Fun is over-rated. Life is serious.”

Castle’s jaw dropped. “That doesn’t mean you can’t have some fun. Loosen up a little. There’s always something around that’ll make you smile.”

She muttered something he didn’t quite catch, but it half-sounded like _what the fuck would you know?_ He ignored that, took her hand and tugged. “C’mon,” he repeated. “Dinner.”

“I don’t wanna.”

“But I do, and I’ve still got questions, so just come and eat already, even if you only have coffee.”

He was just going to keep nagging till she gave up, wasn’t he? She sighed, and stood up. She didn’t want to go. She wanted to go home and be _alone_ and switch her phone to Do Not Disturb and absolutely not answer any questions at all. She wanted to go to Archives and search till her eyes bled, but she couldn’t do that either. She wanted her diary, but that was lost.

She did _not_ want to have dinner – or sit through _his_ dinner – with Richard Castle. Even if she hadn’t yet seen the spoilt playboy, he wasn’t her type. And Remy’s? What was he trying to prove? That he wasn’t a rich asshole? Pull the other leg. He was just playing at being ordinary to amuse himself.

And yet his hand was warm and dry around hers: comforting; and his tugging wasn’t demanding, but hopeful, like a small child wanting to go to the park. She took a step.

The massive mistake that she had _known_ going to Remy’s would be became apparent around two seconds after she walked in.

“Detective!” the server said. “Did you find your diary?”

“No,” she managed, and tried not to snap, or cry.

“Diary?” Richard Castle said.

“Never mind.”

He didn’t take the hint. “You keep a diary?” He sounded utterly shocked.

“This is _not your business_ ,” she snapped.

“But” –

She spun on one high heel and walked out, then frankly ran for the precinct and her car, before he could follow. Home, however silent, was better than that.

Left standing in Remy’s, totally speechless, Castle looked at Beckett’s departing back and then the server. “She lost a diary?”

“Yep. Came in earlier, hoping we’d picked it up, but nope.”

“When did she lose it?” Castle asked, a horrible suspicion entering his mind.

“Day or two ago…uh, no, Monday, she said.”

“Oh,” he said mechanically, thinking _oh shit oh shit oh shit_ – and then thinking, with considerably more anger, that Roy Montgomery had known _exactly_ whose diary he’d been talking about, and, more, had been the _M_ that the diary had mentioned. “Uh, okay. Look, sorry, I gotta go.” 

When he got home, he took out the diary, and tried to connect the raw pain and defeat on the pages with the forceful woman he’d met. He couldn’t. So instead, he dialled Montgomery’s number.

“Rick?”

“You manipulative sonofabitch, Roy! You knew all along that was your detective’s diary, and you set me up! What the hell are you playing at?”

“Ah,” Roy said, which slaked Castle’s fury not one iota. “She worked it out?”

“ _She_ doesn’t know. _I_ worked it out, by total accident. So what are you playing at?”

Roy sighed. “If you were annoying her, I had time to work out a solution.”

“I’m a _Band-aid_?”

“Yes.” The flat response stopped Castle cold.

“What?”

“I’m not losing good people because their life’s temporarily shit. I needed to buy time and you’re the clock. Deal with it. You’re the one who wanted to save the person, well, now’s your chance.”

“Roy” –

“ _You_ said you wouldn’t let them drown. Now I’m calling you on it.”

“Roy! Listen to me. I won’t let her drown – but _you_ have to explain why you didn’t tell me. I’m not your patsy.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. Finally Roy spoke. “I… look, I didn’t tell you this, but…she’s read all your books. She’s a fan. I thought you would distract her. And” – his voice gained confidence – “it’s not like you don’t flirt with every pretty woman who passes your nose. You were bound to make a move” –

“Yeah, if they’re interested. Your detective would be more interested in a fifty-year dead corpse.”

“So change her mind. You wanted to save them, so _save her_.”

“You bastard,” Castle said, but without heat. “You were the last straw, and now you want me to fix it for you. Why couldn’t you just let her keep looking?”

“Because she’s going down the rabbit hole age twenty- _fucking-four_ and she’d run herself into the ground if I looked the other way. Not on my watch, Rick. You were an accident – but I’m not looking the gift horse in the mouth.” Roy sucked in breath. “Make it work. Because I can’t.” It was an admission, and an apology.

“I’m going to have to get the diary back to her,” Castle pointed out. 

“Don’t get shot.”

“How reassuring. Next time you come for poker, I’ll take every cent you’ve got.”

“In your dreams.”

“On my poker table.”

“So I can expect you back at shift end tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Castle sighed. “I’ll be back.” Suddenly he grinned at the phone. “Hasta la vista, baby.”

Roy laughed, and cut the call.

Castle put his phone down, and considered his options. Giving Detective Beckett back her diary would probably ensure that she never spoke to him again, and – however much he’d not said it to Roy – she was a stunningly attractive woman, who had definitely attracted him. He was intrigued by her.

Dammit, he wasn’t going to let her drown.

An idea wormed its way into his head. He could drop the diary at Remy’s – leave it on a table when they were quiet. That might…would?...work. Or leave it at the cash register. That would be better.

And then he had an even better idea. Her diary was all about hopelessness. He’d write _hope_ into it.

He opened the diary, and picked up his pen, left-handed so that she couldn’t recognise his writing, in case he’d signed a book for her. She was, after all, a fan.

***

Beckett reached home, shocked, sick, and pallid. She didn’t want Richard Castle prying into her life, such as it was. She didn’t want reminders of her mother, of her laugh, her joy, her enjoyment – her complete absorption in Richard Castle’s _fucking books_.

And yet she hadn’t thrown them away. Couldn’t put them away. Had read and re-read them; wept over their pages; traced the signature with a trembling finger.

Seen the crime scene photos of her mother, dead in an alley, between her eyes and the words on the page. 

She knew it was destructive, but she kept trying to find salvation in those books, even though all she found was the abyss. His detectives always found the clue, saved the day, solved the case. She…couldn’t.

Some long time later, she dried her eyes, washed, and went to bed; rose, and wondered why she bothered. Hope had died even before Montgomery had thrown her out of Archives, its butterfly wings broken on the iron wheel of lack of evidence; and without hope, she had no purpose.

She’d finish this case, she decided, and then…and then. There didn’t seem much point in anything more. She couldn’t stand to see the devastated faces of the families – she’d thought that she could heal her own wounds in giving them justice, but all she saw was pain, re-opening her own scars, over and over again. She’d worked her ass into the ground to become a detective to give them all justice – but it was ripping her raw: an outcome she’d never expected. She couldn’t do it any more.

It had only taken short months for her to fail.

***

In the morning, she went to work, gulped back the acid liquid that called itself coffee, and poured out her last drops of ability into the case at hand. If it were to be her last piece of work, she’d do it well.

At shift end, the unwelcome noise of Richard Castle assailed her ears and eggshell-thin composure.

“Hey, Beckett,” he bounced.

“Hey,” she said wearily.

“You sound a bit tired. Lemme buy you the coffee you didn’t have yesterday.”

“I’ve got to get this done.” She didn’t, but she couldn’t face another round of questions.

He stood up. “Back in a bit,” he said cheerfully, and disappeared. When he returned, he had two cups of coffee and a rather confused smile. “Uh, they said you took vanilla latte, so that’s what I got you” –

“You asked them?”

“Sure. No point getting something you hated.”

“Oh,” she said weakly. “Thanks.”

“And they said could you drop by. They’ve found a diary.”

“They’ve _what_?”

“They’ve found a diary, but they wouldn’t give me it.” He pouted at her. “I don’t think that’s very fair of them.”

“They’ve got a diary?” she said blankly. “That’s…I have to go check it. I’ll just finish up and then go.”

“I had some questions,” Castle trailed.

“Can we do it tomorrow?”

Just what he wanted. “Sure,” he said easily. “Till tomorrow.” Just as she evidently thought that he was going, he turned back. “Walk you down?” he asked.

“I have to finish.”

“I’ll wait.”

“Why?”

“I wanna. I’ll get dessert to go.”

“Whatever.”

A few moments later, she stretched, sighed, and switched off her computer. “Done.”

“Let’s go, then.”

In the elevator, she didn’t speak. This already wasn’t unusual. Beckett only spoke when he spoke to her. “You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

He tentatively tried a tiny pat of her shoulder – and drew his hand back, _fast_. If he hadn’t – he might not have been able to. She…it was like a magnet to iron. Her eyes came up to his, and for the first time they weren’t cold, or weary, or dull – they were shocked, and wide.

“What was that?”

“Uh, a comforting pat, because it looks like you had a bad day.”

“No,” she said, but he was pretty sure she was lying. “Just slogging through the grunt work.”

“Is there a lot of that?”

“Yeah. Most of detection is details,” she said, “and that means paying really careful attention. Anything could lead to something more.”

 _It sure could_ , Castle thought, _and your reaction to me patting your shoulder is definitely going to lead to something more._ _Details, my dear detective, details._

Details could wait till tomorrow. He grinned as they left the precinct. “Till tomorrow,” he said, and peeled off in the direction of the subway.

“Night,” he heard from behind him, and grinned more widely.

***

Beckett clicked rapidly towards Remy’s, not really believing, but desperately hoping, that it really was her diary.

“Hey,” she said. “Someone handed in a diary?”

“Yeah,” the server said. “Hang on a second.” She produced an extremely familiar black book. “This it?”

Beckett took a look at the first page, and saw her own handwriting. “Yep. Thanks,” she said. “Can I get a latte, two pumps sugar-free vanilla, to go?” As the server turned away to make it, she slipped five dollars into the tip jar, and then waited, collected her drink, and left.

At home, the coffee finished long before she got there, she stared at her diary. She’d never expected to see it again, had written the loss off as just one more way the universe was telling her she didn’t matter. So to have it returned was a shock to her worldview; a surprising blessing.

Not that it mattered. She still hadn’t any clues to her mom’s murder, and she wouldn’t and couldn’t bail out her father any more. She opened the diary, to flip to that day’s page.

And stopped, frozen, at the very first page she’d written on. Because that was not her writing, underneath her bleak, bitter words; it was a cramped, awkward, _different_ hand.

_Something matters. You matter. Even if you were a hundred years old, or homeless and destitute, your life matters to others._

What the hell?

She read it again. And again.

Someone was _answering_ her inner thoughts? Someone had found her diary, read it – she cringed – and…oh. Someone was _reaching out_. Not knowing her, they still wanted to reassure her, to help her.

Someone thought she _mattered_ , without knowing anything about her.

If they knew anything about her, they’d know she didn’t. Didn’t matter to the NYPD, they’d got an endless supply of recruits, officers, detectives. Didn’t matter to her dad, or he’d stop drinking.

Didn’t matter to her mom, because _she_ was dead, and nothing could matter to the dead.

But this stranger, with odd, awkward, badly formed writing, jerky and rough, smudged, as if…

As if they weren’t used to writing. As if, looking at the smudges, they were left-handed. Their words, though, didn’t match the writing. The _words_ were fluent, flowing, confident that the world was a good place.

She flipped over the pages till her next entry, and there was more of the awkward writing.

 _You can’t control it, can’t cure it – and you didn’t cause it_. _Trust me, I’ve seen it all before. I couldn’t help them either. Some of them got clean_ –

Interesting, Beckett thought. That implied drugs, not just drink.

_\- some of them didn’t. I couldn’t talk them into rehab, or giving up. I couldn’t talk them into anything unless they wanted to be talked into it. Hit bottom. It was the only way they’d ever change. But some of them never hit bottom. They just kept falling…I tried, and tried. But until they wanted to, nothing ever changed._

_You can’t do it for your dad. All you can do is wait till he hits bottom. But it’s not on you. It’s never on you._

_It took me years to learn that._

She didn’t realise she was sobbing till the drops fell on the page, smudging the ink further.


	4. Chapter 4

She cried herself dry, and stared at the diary. Whoever had written those words had _known_. They’d been there, seen it, tried as she had tried.

Failed as she had failed.

But they’d moved on. Somehow, some way, they’d come to terms with their own failure. Come to understand that it wasn’t _their_ failure.

If it wasn’t _their_ failure, was it possible that her father’s fall wasn’t _her_ failure? If he didn’t care, it was because _he_ didn’t care. Not because _she_ didn’t.

She closed the diary. She had to think, but the words she had read had upended her: her head was spinning. She couldn’t comprehend the implications, couldn’t follow the trail. Dazed, she put herself to bed, falling into restless, uneasy sleep; her dreams fractured and confused, twisting paths and dead ends; incomprehensible answers to incoherent questions. For once, her alarm woke her, cutting through another mist-obscured maze.

Showered, dressed, made-up, however, despite the obfuscation and confusion of her dreams, her mind was a little lighter, her mood less unrelentingly dark. Before she went out, she re-read the crabbed, constricted writing, the open-hearted confidence of the words, and, somehow, was warmed; a tiny melting of her deep-frozen soul.

The day passed quickly: Beckett pushing herself through her tiredness, but finding that the bone-deep weariness that had accompanied her for so long had lessened. When Richard Castle appeared, she even managed a small upward quirk of lips.

“Hey, Beckett,” he carolled, plopping down in a chair he’d evidently snitched from a vacant desk and scooting over to her.

“Hey, Castle.”

“You called me Castle! Does that mean we’re friends now?”

He was just so _silly_ that she couldn’t help rolling her eyes at him. Honestly, for someone his age, he behaved like a kindergarten child.

“We are, aren’t we?” he asked, following it with a look that the hardest of stone hearts couldn’t have resisted.

“I guess so.” For the first time since he’d been inflicted upon her, she actually looked properly at him, rather than ducking her gaze away to hide the pain. Deep in her subconscious, something said _mmm lovely eyes_. Her smile appeared, but didn’t stay – but Castle met it with a wide, easy smile of his own that demanded nothing but still provided appreciation. 

“Great!” He spun his chair round, providing a proper profile – interesting: he didn’t look quite as soft and out of condition as she’d expect a writer to look. She filed that. It wasn’t relevant. “Was it your diary?”

“Huh?” She reset her brain. “Yes.”

“You must be really relieved. I’d hate to lose my notebook. I’ve got all sorts of stuff in there for characters and plot points and little snippets of observation – and my shopping list and whatever my publicist wants me to do. I’d be lost without it.” He burbled on about his own notebook, hiding his deep interest in Beckett’s diary – and her reaction to the added commentary.

“Have you any questions, or are you going to continue talking without engaging your brain?”

“Mean,” he grinned. “But I’ll forgive you.”

“How generous.”

“So, Storm’s got these fingerprints. How’s he going to identify them?”

“Clara Strike,” Beckett said unthinkingly.

“You really have read the books. Yes.” Castle hauled out his notebook and scrawled. “Of course he’d ask Clara. Probably when they’re in bed…”

“Too much information,” Beckett snipped. Castle didn’t answer. He was writing at break-neck speed as the scene unfolded in his head. She turned to her work, and was soon as lost in that as he was in his story.

“Beckett, Beckett.” Castle tapped her. She startled, and jerked upwards. “It’s nearly eight, and I’m starving. Lemme buy you dinner. Or coffee, or something. I didn’t mean to keep you here when I wasn’t asking you anything.” He stared soulfully at her. “I’d feel really guilty if you don’t let me,” he pleaded.

She shouldn’t. Looking at him, she shouldn’t. Every glance would remind her of her mother’s favourite books; her failure; the ever-present pain. And yet, he didn’t, right here, right now, look like the celebrity author whose photo was on the back of every book; his hair was tousled where he’d evidently run fingers through it while thinking, there were tiny laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, his shirt was a little crumpled, and five o’clock shadow was gathering at his jaw. He looked – unpolished. Human, imperfect: not a PR construct. It made him far more attractive, her subconscious decided.

“I…”

“C’mon, pleeeeease? I really, really want one of those lovely big cheeseburgers but I hate eating on my own and my daughter’s at a sleepover so… you can’t leave me all alone to be miserable and get indigestion and not sleep and walk into a wall so my nose gets broken and” –

“Stop. That’s total nonsense and it won’t work on me. You can’t guilt trip me.”

“It was worth a try. But okay, I won’t,” he added hastily as he caught her expression. “So…without any guilt tripping…please would you let me buy you dinner?”

Her thoughts returned to the writing in the diary. _You matter_. _It’s not on you_. 

“Okay,” she said.

Castle stared at Beckett. “You will? You mean it?”

“Didn’t you?” she said, suddenly uncertain.

“Yes, but I never thought – c’mon. Let’s go.” He had his coat over his arm in half a second, dancing on his toes with impatience, fidgeting and fretful till she cleared her desk and stood up. “Pizza? Remy’s? Something else?”

“I thought you wanted a cheeseburger?”

Castle coloured. “Well, yeah, but only if you want one too.”

“I like their shakes.” Which was an evasion, but one that he didn’t call her on.

Remy’s was quiet, and the server found them a table away from the doors. They ordered quickly.

“Hungry?” Castle asked, as Beckett disposed of her salad and burger in nothing flat.

“Guess I was.”

“Dessert? Coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

The dessert disappeared as quickly as the burger had, and coffee arrived.

“I guess you were pleased you got the diary back?”

“Yeah.” Castle watched a tiny crease appear between her brows, which he found utterly adorable. Her mouth started to open, then shut again, and the crease became a frown.

“What’s up?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“Don’t believe you,” he hummed.

“It was just weird, that’s all. Not your problem.”

“Nope, but talking it through might help. I like mysteries,” he said smugly, “and I’m good at them.”

She didn’t meet his eyes. “It’s fine,” she said, closing down again. “Thanks for dinner.” She began to gather her purse and coat, preparing to leave.

Castle put a hand on hers. He wasn’t prepared for the jolt of electricity, or the same shock in her eyes as there had been the other day – but this time he didn’t pull away. “You don’t have to talk,” he said, “but if…if you want to” – his words rushed out – “then…I’ll listen.” He forced his fingers away from her hand. She watched them go as warily as if they were claws retracting; still wide-eyed and somehow scared; something else under the shock that he couldn’t quite place.

“Nothing to talk about. But thank you,” she added awkwardly. “Goodnight.”

“Till tomorrow, Beckett.”

She managed a small, tight smile. It wasn’t _don’t bother_. It wasn’t _looking forward to it_.

As she left, he heard her phone ring, saw her whole body tense, and then a vicious swipe to decline the call. Fresh from his conclusions and notations in her diary, he realised that she was, most likely, ignoring calls to go bail out her drunken dad. She really had meant it: that she wouldn’t save him any more. He wanted to run after her; hug her; reassure her; but he couldn’t. He had no reassurance for her: experience reminding him that there wasn’t always a happy ending.

He sat back down, asked for another coffee: anything to stop himself running after her. Roy had said _save her_. He hadn’t said _chase her down and kiss hell out of her, tumble her into bed and never let her go_. He had to get control of himself. He wasn’t a hormone driven, callow teen – and he knew exactly where sexual impulsiveness could take him. Meredith… he couldn’t stand another go around like that. He had to admit it, however, he _really_ wanted Detective Beckett. Something about her flicked all his switches to full on. Maybe it was the vulnerability that she was oh-so-successfully hiding beneath her work shell: tough with a soft centre; fast mind with an underlying doubt. The tiny crack in her carapace made her irresistible.

Of course, it didn’t hurt that she was stunningly gorgeous and scorchingly hot. He wasn’t anything near to a saint. But…he didn’t only want to take her to bed. He wanted her to talk to him; lean on him; be friends.

Oh, shit. He was totally screwed already.

***

Beckett declined yet another call that was almost certainly from yet another drunk tank, and fled home. The alternative would have been sitting back down and grabbing Castle’s hand again. A well-meaning pat on her fingers shouldn’t still be resonating down her nerves – but it was.

She didn’t get it. Celebrity playboys were out of her league. They didn’t fit with her life. No matter how warm and pretty their big blue eyes were; no matter how broad their shoulders; no matter how scalding their touch. It was all an over-active imagination and the massive void in her life where love and affection and _family_ ought to be, and wasn’t. 

She looked at her phone again: the declined call. Three, all from the same number. She could simply keep on declining. The words in the diary floated back to her: _you can’t do it for your dad, you have to wait until he hits bottom_.

If she said she wouldn’t come, instead of ignoring the calls – would he hit bottom? Or would he just keep on falling, until… _Until they wanted to, nothing ever changed_. Either he changed, or nothing changed. But she couldn’t change him. God knew, she’d tried, and tried, and tried.

Maybe she should stop trying.

She gritted her teeth so hard that her jaw creaked, and reached for the phone.

***

Later, she lay in bed, tense, desperate, terrified of the fallout of what she’d done. Told the custody sergeant that she wouldn’t come. Would never come again. He had to do it himself, because she wasn’t going to bail him out. She hugged a pillow to herself, and stared at the blank ceiling, heart thumping. It was done now, and she had to let the cards fall where they might. She couldn’t go back.

She picked up the diary again, and read the cramped hand: the same words; and then flipped forward. There was no writing on the blank pages, but underneath her next entry, the same uncomfortable hand had written again.

_Congratulations. This proves you matter. Law enforcement always matters, whether that’s a cop or a lawyer or a judge or the FBI or CIA. They do good work. So never think you don’t matter, when you’re out there solving crimes and getting justice for the victims. Whatever you do: Robbery, Narcotics, Homicide, whatever it is – it matters, and so do you._

She flipped on. All the blank pages when she’d been spending every off-duty hour God sent down in Archives, barely sleeping, frantically, repetitively searching – she hadn’t realised how long it had been, but the diary’s unforgivingly blank pages told her that it had been months – all the blank pages when nothing had mattered except her mother’s case.

All her blank life, for five years and a little more. The empty pages didn’t lie.

And then her bitter, bereaved words – and below them, that other writing, almost, already, familiar. Only a few words.

_Please don’t die. You matter. I don’t know you, but you matter to me._

What? _Please don’t die_? She hadn’t been planning to _die_ – had she? She read her own words again, and again.

Oh, fuck. It read as if…as if… oh, _fuck_. She hadn’t meant that. She _hadn’t_. She’d just been tired and weary and sick of it all and…oh, _fuck_. 

She might have meant it. She had been so very, very tired of it all, and nothing had seemed worth the bother. Now, however…well, she’d taken a step. It might be the wrong step, but it was _a_ step. She wasn’t picking up her father – and she’d made a positive decision and given an answer, not just avoided the issue and pretended it wasn’t there. She might be wrong – but, she realised, now she took the time to think, she wasn’t quite as stressed. Frantically worried, when she thought about what she’d done, but the underlying tension was a little lower. Someone else – some total stranger, with no information or knowledge or ties to her – had somehow pierced her paralysis and shown her that there was a way out, if only she were brave enough to take it.

She would. She would be brave enough to walk this path, and, however hard it was, leave her father to save himself. She would go back to the job she’d fought for, the job she loved, and do it well: not because she was using it to bury herself in her mother’s case, but because she was _good_ at it. Sure, she wanted more than anything to solve her mother’s murder – but if she killed herself trying, what good would that be? _You matter_ , she read again. _Getting justice for the victims_. She could help to do that. 

For the first time in five years, she fell asleep with a dash of hope.

She dreamed of a pair of warm blue eyes and a bright, joyful smile, and woke, refreshed, to remember that tomorrow and Sunday, most unusually, she was off shift and needn’t do anything if she didn’t want to. Or, more satisfyingly, she could do things that she _did_ want to do. She could plan to do something nice. She swung off to work, almost happy, and stayed that way for the whole of the day.

When Castle turned up, bubbling over with questions, she greeted him with a smile, and managed to answer the first ten without a hint of impatience. On the eleventh, however, her patience ran out.

“Enough,” she said. “You haven’t stopped for a minute. Don’t you need to breathe, or something?”

“I have excellent breath control,” Castle oozed, “and you have no idea how much fun that can be.” His eyes sparkled naughtily. “Wanna know?”

“No.”

“Can’t you swim?”

“What?”

“Well, I found that excellent breath control is really useful when I took my daughter swimming – we could play all sorts of sea monster games. I do a really excellent Godzilla impression” –

“Large, noisy and destructive?”

“How unkind. Although, since you asked, yes, I am large, but perfectly formed.” He waggled his eyebrows. Beckett blushed to the roots of her hair.

Castle, having detected a major change in Beckett’s misery levels – upward to almost happy – had decided on some well-judged flirting, to see if there was an improvement in her interest levels. In him, naturally. He didn’t want her to express interest in anyone else, thank you.

“That’s not appropriate,” she snipped.

“What? According to my tailor” –

“Of course he’s got a tailor,” she muttered to the air –

“I am perfectly proportioned. Broad shoulders, slimmer hips, decent length arms and legs. Did you think I meant anything else? I could show you.”

She choked on her coffee.

“I could arrive in exercise gear.”

She choked again.

“What about your proportions?”

“I don’t have a tailor. Or a dress-maker, before you get pedantic about the differences.”

“I could size you up.”

“Like you’ve been doing since you got here? Nope. Paws off.”

“I haven’t put any paws on you.” He grinned. “Would you like me to?”

Oh. Oh, wow. She was really, really trying not to – but there was a delicate blush, and her lashes had dropped to hide her eyes. She _would_ like him to. His grin widened.

“No!” she said.

He pouted. “No paws? So I can’t bring in a puppy?”

“That was _not_ what you meant!”

“It was so. What sort of dog do you like? Little, large? Fluffy? Short-haired? I know – a Newfoundland!”

“I don’t want a dog.”

“A cat?”

“Nope.”

“A hamster?”

“No!”

“I know,” he smiled. “A pony!”

“Absolutely not.”

He constructed an expression of desperate disappointment, and widened his eyes at her. “Can’t I give you anything?”

She rolled her eyes at him. He widened his further. “Pleeeeeease?”

“Oh, dear God. Yes, if it’ll shut you up for ten _seconds_. Could I get a coffee please?”

“Sure.” He looked around. “Do you mean that – stuff – from the break room? Because that is not coffee. It’s barely drinkable. If you mean actual coffee, then sure – but you have to come down to the coffee bar with me to make sure I get it right.” He regarded her with a totally faked expression of pious sanctimony. “I wouldn’t want to get it wrong. You might never answer another question.”

“This is a problem?” she asked the surrounding emptiness.

“Of course it’s a problem. I need details. Precision. So – are you coming or not?”

“The coffee from the break room is fine,” she said.

“What? No, no, no. That’s not coffee. That’s sludge. I’m not getting you that. You’ll die from poisoning in front of my eyes and then I’ll be blamed and your fellow detectives will arrest me and my daughter’ll be left fatherless and” –

“Stop! Do you always go on like this when you don’t get your own way?”

“Yep,” Castle grinned. “And it always works, too. You’re standing up. Come on. Coffee,” he enticed. “I know you like it.” Beckett growled at him, but it had no real force behind it. “And it’s past shift end, so call it a day and come get coffee before you go home.”

“You just never give up, do you? Never take no for an answer.”

“I do so!” Castle squawked. “I wouldn’t touch you if you said no. I’ve got a daughter!”

Beckett regarded him with some amazement. “Are you telling me your reputation’s all fake?”

Castle squirmed. “Well, no, but it was always _consensual_. They had a really good time, too,” he bragged. Beckett’s lips twisted. “I said _had_.”

“You sign chests.”

“You really are a fan! Why are you so mean to me if you’re a fan? You should be really pleased I’m asking all these questions because it means you’ll have another book to read.”

“You’re avoiding the point.”

“Yep,” he said, shamelessly.

“Why do you sign chests?”

“My publicist thought it would raise my profile. Kind of a silicone elevator.”

She choked. “A _what_ now?”

“Well, most of them were artificially enhanced…”

“How do you _know_?” She couldn’t stop the question.

“They don’t, um, give in quite the same way.” His gaze had dropped from her face.

“Eyes up _here_ ,” she snapped.

“It’s a nice coat.”

She made an extremely sceptical noise, and followed it up with a glare.

“Here we are at the coffee bar,” he said happily.


	5. Chapter 5

Beckett strode into the coffee bar perfectly certain that Castle was annoying her on purpose, which would not, however, prevent her ordering coffee. As he took care of the necessities of life – that would be caffeine in industrial quantities – she realised, shorn of the annoying innuendo, that she was even less stressed. Oddly, the innuendo had made her _more_ comfortable with Castle – he must have known that she could reduce him to a tiny package of cuffed offender in a small, uncomfortable cell in seconds flat, but he wasn’t treating her peculiarly because of it. Ever since she’d become a cop, people – well, men – had either walked wide, given her exaggerated and in some cases patronising respect, or tried to cosy right up to her on the grounds that really she was just a uniformed stripper.

Castle, on the other hand, was treading with extreme accuracy and perfect balance a very thin tightrope between something offensive and something just plain dumb – and she was, she realised, enjoying it. She couldn’t remember when she’d last simply enjoyed something.

“Here you are,” he said, and handed her a china cup – well, barrel. She hadn’t known barrels were made of china.

“Thanks. Er…didn’t you get it to go?”

“Nope.”

“Oh.”

“Just sit down and enjoy. Take time to breathe.” He surveyed her. “Though you do look a bit happier than the last few days. Good news?”

“We closed a case.”

“And you got your diary back.”

“That was a relief, yeah. I’d hate to lose it,” she said lightly.

Castle grinned. “Yep. So what went right, then, apart from closing the case?”

Beckett hesitated. “Got some stuff fixed, that’s all. Someone said something and it cleared a lot of stuff up, suddenly.”

“Sometimes it happens like that,” Castle said. “If I’m hunting for the perfect solution, sometimes someone will say something and it just triggers a line of thought that works. It needn’t even be directly relevant.”

“Yeah. I guess.” Her eyes drifted far away. The words had been directly relevant to her, but she wasn’t going to discuss any of that with Castle. 

“Aren’t you going to drink your coffee?”

“Huh?”

He tapped her hand, first gently and then more firmly. When neither worked to attract her attention, he put his own big hand over hers, and picked it up.

Her hand was slim, delicate, fine-boned – and utterly swamped in his. He stared at it, and at her; she stared at him: eyes enormous, mouth a little parted in shock. He couldn’t let go of her fingers; twining into them, gripping; bringing her hand up towards him.

She made a strange, half-startled noise, stopping him just before he brought fingertips to lips, but he kept her hand clasped in his.

“What” –

“Trying to get your attention,” Castle said smoothly, and released her. “Your coffee’s getting cold.” She buried her face in the barrel-mug, and downed almost half of it without a pause. He didn’t touch his own. His hand was shaking. She had both hands around her cup, and he thought that hers might be shaking too. “Uh,” he managed, not smoothly at all. “Are you okay?”

She wasn’t okay. She was very much not okay. What the _hell_ had just happened to her? Her brain had fried, and an interesting variety of nerves and muscles were behaving in some very not-okay ways. She couldn’t think. Well, she _could_ think, but the only thought she could think was _hold my hand again_ , which was not a helpful thought. She’d met him less than a week ago, and when she’d looked at him all she’d felt was the pain of losing her mom all over again; the difficulty of reading his get-the-guy-win-the-girl-solve-the-case books when she couldn’t – and now he’d pulled at her hand to get her attention and all she wanted was _more_? She’d gone crazy. Totally, ridiculously, batshit crazy.

And yet her fingers were stealing back towards his, peeling off from the warm china. She forced them flat and still on the table top. She was _not not not_ going to get involved with a celebrity playboy who could – so he said – tell the difference between flesh and silicone by touch. ( _Implies a lot of experience_ , an interested little voice suggested. _Experience doesn’t imply ability_ , a more cynical voice answered.)

Finally she looked up, and met a pair of blue eyes, containing a horrifying mixture of shock and heat. She couldn’t look away from them, and consequently failed to realise that her disobedient fingers were on the move until they wrapped themselves into Castle’s; where they were trapped and held; heat running from his hand to hers and through her arm, down her spine, warming her from the inside out. His other hand met hers, and so they stayed for a few, stunned seconds, until she recovered half a brain cell and tugged her hands sharply away.

“You don’t have to,” Castle noted.

“What?”

“Don’t have to let go. I like holding your hand. It’s delightfully slim and holdable. It fits into mine just perfectly.”

It did. But that wasn’t the _point_. “It’s not a good idea.”

“Nope,” Castle agreed. Beckett’s jaw dropped. “It would be an excellent idea, but if you don’t want to, we won’t.” He made a show of pulling his hands right back to the edge of the table. “But you have to explain why you think it’s not a good idea.”

“I barely know you.”

“You’ve read my books.”

“That’s not knowing you.”

“It’s a good start. There’s lots of me in my books.”

“Derring-do and death defying stunts?” She looked him up and down. “Nah.”

“I was thinking more of the way he was a magnet for beautiful women.” 

She rolled her eyes. “Hopeful, aren’t you?”

“Oh, I don’t know. You came for coffee, didn’t you?”

Beckett’s mouth opened and shut several times. “Urk?” she managed.

Castle grinned happily. “See. Magnet for beautiful women. Woman. Specifically, you.”

“You _what now_?” Beckett squawked.

“Are you denying you’re a beautiful woman?”

“I’m _denying_ you’re a magnet for beautiful women.”

“Just for you?” he said hopefully.

“What?”

“I’m a magnet for you.”

“Could you be any _more_ conceited?”

“Oh, yes. Shall I try?”

“ _No!_ ”

“Okay then. Though it’s not very fair of you not to let me try. You’re no fun.”

She opened her mouth on a smart riposte – and her phone rang. Her face changed, and she declined the call. Her light, flirtatious mood shattered with the ringtone.

“No, I’m not. Life is not fun. Life is serious.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t have fun.” He grinned widely. “You should have fun. Lots of fun. With me, obviously.”

“No.” Beckett said flatly. “Life isn’t about fun. And it’s time I went home. Thank you for the coffee.”

“Aw, don’t go. Promise I’ll stop teasing.”

“I have to go home. It’s late.”

Castle smiled a little ruefully. “Okay. C’n I walk you to the subway, Detective?” He held up his hands, palms towards her, in supplication. “Promise no more teasing.”

“If I say no, you’ll just follow me anyway, won’t you?”

“I have to go home too.”

“Oh, o _kay_.”

Beckett didn’t want to spend any more time with Castle tonight – not because she disliked it, but because she liked it too much. She had her own life to fix, before she could think about anything else.

 _Didn’t want to_ was abruptly replaced by _really really want to_ when he steered her out with a warm, wide palm over the small of her back; which was totally unnecessary, since even small children could usually find their way out of a door without guidance, but which felt reassuringly _nice_. She didn’t realise she’d curved into the touch until it turned into a tiny stroke, and then didn’t leave when they had fully exited.

“Which way are you going?” he asked.

“Uptown.”

“Oh.” His mouth turned down. “I’m going downtown.” He drew her out of the way of the subway entrance. “I know! Give me your phone number.”

“What?”

“I might have questions when I start writing, and then I could just call you. You’re off-shift tomorrow, aren’t you?”

“How did you know that?”

“O’Hanrahan told me.”

That rat would get salt in his next cup of tea, Beckett vowed. Snitching about her days off?

Give Castle her number? She didn’t want it given out. Every damn drunk tank in the city had it: she didn’t need it to be spread any further. And she didn’t want to be called on her day off. Not even by Castle.

What? Not _even_? Not at all. Not. At. All. So why was she giving him the number?

“I’ll just put mine in yours,” he said, filched her phone, and rapidly tapped in a number before she could snatch it back. “There.” He handed it back, without time to look at it. She couldn’t have borne it if he’d seen the missed call and asked questions.

Suddenly, she simply wanted to be at home, in the silence and chill peace of her apartment: undisturbed, unquestioned, able to stop and be still.

“Goodnight,” she said, and turned – only to be turned back.

“Till tomorrow,” Castle said, bent a fraction and pecked her cheek, hugging her briefly and then dashing off before she could react, which was just as well. She couldn’t decide whether to kiss him back or kill him on the spot. Since neither was now an option, she went home.

At home, she regarded the declined call with loathing, but listened to the message and dialled anyway.

“Eighth Precinct. Sergeant Tibbs.”

“Detective Beckett, Sergeant. You rang me, about James Beckett. You picked him up and he’s in your tank.” Her voice was calm and cool. 

“Yeah. You gonna come get him?”

“No.” It fell flatly through the connection. “I’m not.”

“But you’re his emergency contact.”

“This isn’t an emergency. This is his life. But it’s not mine. If he’s blackout drunk, charge him if you want to, but don’t call me. I can’t save him. He has to want to stop, and he doesn’t. So don’t call me, because I won’t come.” She kept her voice dead level. Her emotions were screaming to go, collect him, save him. She _wouldn’t_.

“Okay, Detective.” The sergeant’s tone was reproachful. She ignored the reproach. She had to: if once she gave in, she’d never be able to refuse again.

“Good bye.” She cut the call, and slumped on the couch, drained. 

After a while, she trailed to her bedroom, and took the diary from the nightstand, and reread the words that had allowed her to cut her father loose; over and over again, until she fell asleep with the light still on and the diary in her hand.

***

Castle sauntered home entirely content with life, and especially pleased that he’d managed to express his considerable interest in Beckett without being shut down (mostly) or shot. She’d felt just right when he’d hugged her; the right height, the right size to be enfolded: just right. They’d been having a simply delightful time over coffee – right up till her phone rang and she shut down. 

He really wished he knew if she were ignoring the problem – which he was almost certain was her drunken father – or if she had bitten the bullet, so to speak, and was refusing the requests to bail him out. He’d given her all the words he could find to try to help, scrawled with his left hand and almost unrecognisable as writing; nothing like his usual smooth lines. But he couldn’t ask her what was happening, because she’d never mentioned anything to him, and she’d guess that he’d seen her diary if he tried to probe.

He parked that problem, in favour of the much happier thoughts of flirting with Beckett, holding hands with Beckett, hugging Beckett, and even kissing Beckett, albeit on the cheek. Proximity had only heightened his desire for her, and he’d had a very hard time not kissing her properly.

He was still having a very hard time, but he could deal with that.

Instead of writing Storm, he sank into a pleasant reverie, musing about Beckett, and her sharp, assertive behaviour at work – though always deferring to her seniors, she wasn’t shy to make suggestions, from the little he’d seen – which contrasted with her chill, quiet uncertainty outside work. And, of course, her unseen agony that had painted the pages of her diary and left him desperate, even before he knew her, to save her.

It seemed, though, that Beckett was suddenly a little happier. If so, maybe his words had helped her. She’d said that someone had said something, and it had cleared up matters. Just maybe, that had been him. A small warm glow developed within his chest. He’d helped. Even if she never knew it – she’d better never find out – he’d helped her.

Tomorrow, he decided, whether he needed to discuss Storm or not (he could always think of a spurious reason if he didn’t have a real one – and so far they’d all been spurious), he’d call Beckett and see if she would like to go for another coffee. Or whatever. Just to spend time with her, off duty, as it were. How fortunate that Alexis would be out all day. Class birthday parties were a godsend.

He fell asleep with a smile as wide as the Pacific, and dreamed of Beckett, in ways which she would _definitely_ have shot him for in real life. In his dreams, she not only flirted back, she curved under his touch in the most enticing of fashions, responding to his petting with some deeply arousing petting of her own. After that, his dreams weren’t repeatable anywhere outside his head. He woke deeply satisfied, right up to the point he realised that he was snuggled up to a pillow, not Detective Beckett.

***

Beckett indulged in a leisurely breakfast, containing all the essential food groups of orange juice, sugar, pastries, and several gallons of excellent coffee from her special occasion stash of Ethiopian. She was going to have a good day.

The first day of her _own_ life. Not a life wasted on someone else, who would only drag her down, but her own life. And she was going to do exactly what she wanted to do. She’d woken up relatively late, was tucking into her lovely breakfast, and then she would ponder her options. She could go to an exhibition, have a long lunch, go for a walk in Central Park, or a run. Or she could read peacefully, or cook. She could do anything.

The multitudinous possibilities almost overwhelmed her. She’d spent so long not doing anything except picking up her drunken father, that she didn’t know what to do when she had space and time to do it. The first thing, then, was to find something with listings. She swung off to the store in the late-spring sunshine, happier than in years, acquired a newspaper with listings of all the exhibitions, movies, shows, plays and concerts available, and settled down to peruse them and select one or two.

She spotted an interesting exhibition, way up at Fort Tryon Park, and decided that it would do nicely.

An hour later, she wondered why she’d thought that taking the subway on a Saturday was a good idea. It was full of irritating people, blocking the doorways, stopping at the tops or bottoms of escalators, jamming up the turnstiles, and generally not behaving like a good New Yorker should. She called down the wrath of Heaven on all tourists and non-city dwellers, and tried to reduce her cortisol levels to something that wouldn’t blow any self-respecting brain to flinders. Reduction happened exactly coincident with her leaving the subway and walking through the park to the Cloisters, where there were far fewer people and _no-one_ to get in her way. 

Almost at the museum door, her phone rang. Instantly, all the relief from stress of a gentle perambulation through the park disappeared; her stress level going nought to a hundred in rather less than a second, before she’d even got her phone fully out.

It was Castle. Not a reproachful sergeant, not a cop telling her they’d picked her father up again, not some worse trouble. Adrenaline crash fuelled her sharp tone. “What?”

“Did I interrupt something?” he asked. “Are you okay?”

“It’s my day off and I’m busy,” she snapped. “Do you have a question or are you annoying me just because you can?”

“Ouch. Are you snapping just because you can?”

Castle’s firm tone recalled Beckett to a measure of reality. It wasn’t his fault that she’d assumed the call was another round of bad news, nor that she was still so over-sensitive to the possibility that she was strung tight by the sound of her phone.

“I thought you were someone else,” she said. It was half-apologetic.

Castle, generally a forgiving man, and more importantly fully aware of who Beckett might have thought him to be, decided to take it as an olive branch. “I’m glad I wasn’t,” he said. “You might really have been angry with me. Them.” He paused. “Are you really busy?”

“I’m at a museum.”

“Ooohhhh, which one? Would I like it? Is there a special exhibition I should see?”

“The Cloisters,” she said without thinking.

“I love that place,” Castle said happily. “And there are some really good restaurants around there – Dominican, mostly.”

Beckett’s heart should have been sinking. She could predict his next sentence with total accuracy.

“I could meet you for lunch and you could answer my question then.”

Yep, totally right. Word for word. She should be annoyed.

She wasn’t annoyed. She was, um, oh yes. That feeling was called _happy_. “Where?”

Castle emitted a strange, and surprised, noise. “I’ll collect you from the Cloisters at one,” he said, and rang off before she could do anything other than inhale.

Beckett paid her entrance fee and wandered through the museum, trying to identify why on earth one spoilt, annoying writer dragging her away from her visit to a delightfully eclectic museum should make her feel happy.

As it happened, she had seen everything by one, and perched on a handy bench, in the sunshine, waiting. Castle showed up exactly on time, which was suspicious. “How’d you manage that?”

“What?”

“Being dead on time. This is Manhattan. Nobody’s ever dead on time.” She fixed him with a stare. “What did you do?”

“Nothing!” he squawked. “I’m just very precise.”

“Precision hasn’t been a notable feature of our acquaintance,” she said dryly.

“Why do you think I’m asking all those questions?” Castle riposted. “I have to get the details right, or it’s not accurate. I have to be accurate!”

“That still doesn’t explain how you managed to be here dead on time – oh. You were sneaking around waiting for the right moment, weren’t you? You’ve been hiding round the corner, or something.” Castle blushed. “Why?”

He muttered something, and his ears reddened further.

“Didn’t hear that.”

“Didn’t want to be late,” he forced out.

Beckett’s jaw dropped. “What?”

He squirmed. “You were upset. I didn’t want to upset you more.” She stared at him. “Look, it’s obvious that something’s really wrong at home. And since you’ve come out to coffee with me, I don’t guess that you’re in a relationship, so it must be something else. I don’t wanna know” – he was lying through his teeth: he really _did_ want to know – “but if you’re that stressed you don’t need more stress. So – since you’re as straitlaced as a straitjacket – I thought that if I was right on the button at least that wouldn’t stress you more.” Her eyes couldn’t have gotten any wider. “So, Detective, shall we go for lunch?” He broke the mood deliberately. Serious chat was not his intention – flirtation, however, was. He extended a hand to her, and met her eyes, donning his irresistible million-watt smile.

“Should that impress me?” she asked.

Oh. It was resistible. Shit. Now what?

“Yes,” he said, and simply took her hand.


	6. Chapter 6

Much to Castle’s surprise, Beckett’s next move wasn’t to break his arm. Even more astoundingly, she allowed her hand to remain in his.

“Not impressed,” she snarked. “PR smiles? What do you think I am?”

“Well, I know you’re a fan,” he grinned.

“And I know you’re a playboy.”

“But you like me.”

“Says who?”

“Me. You wouldn’t let me hold your hand if you didn’t like me.”

“I don’t want my hand to be held,” she fibbed.

“Okay,” Castle agreed, and dropped her hand, promptly replacing it by wrapping his arm around her waist. “That better?”

Beckett made a series of indeterminately furious noises, which together added up to one howl’s worth of annoyance. Strangely, they did not add up to an emission of _No_ , or _Get lost_ , or variants thereof. He concluded that the arm around her was allowable, for the moment.

“Lunch,” he decided, and began to walk. Perforce, Beckett moved too. She still hadn’t killed him, which, on the scale of miracles, he calculated was around the loaves and fishes level, but below Lazarus.

Beckett had decided, on a whim (she didn’t normally have whims, let alone act upon them. Whims were for the weak-willed, or frivolous. She was neither), to preserve the unusual feeling of happiness occasioned by Castle’s presence and then his arm around her. Granted, it meant nothing more than another attempt to irritate her by flirting, but she would draw its sting by not reacting as expected. That she was enjoying both it and the little trickles of warmth that mere affection had produced, was simply a by-product and most certainly not the reason she’d allowed the encircling arm to stay put. 

By the time the restaurant had been reached, Castle’s encircling arm had barely moved, but somehow Beckett was closely tucked into his side and beautifully warm, cosy and happy. Lunch was delicious, and Beckett relaxed sufficiently to discuss current affairs and movies with vim and point, which left her failing to notice Castle’s large hand over hers until quite some time after his palm had arrived.

The shock of discovering that she had turned her own hand upward to link into his was so great that Beckett also failed to notice Castle settling the check until he stood up, pulling her with him by their joined hands, and walked them out of the door.

“What shall we do now,” he asked. “Go for a nice walk? Another museum? Kiss?”

“What?”

“That got your attention. Kiss. It’s when” –

“I know what a kiss is.”

“Oh, good. That means I don’t have to explain it, though I was looking forward to showing you if you didn’t know.”

“I’m not kissing you!”

“That’s okay, you don’t have to. I’ll kiss you instead. Just as nice.”

He leaned over and administered a peck to both cheeks, French style, and then straightened up again as Beckett spluttered wrathfully.

“There,” he smirked. “Kisses. Would you like to do it again?”

Beckett stopped spluttering, and peeked up from under her eyelashes. “Kissing in public is so gauche,” she husked.

“Are you suggesting something, Detective Beckett?”

She smiled slyly. “Shall we have coffee at mine? It’s nearer.”

“That would be delightful,” Castle answered suavely, and curled his arm around her waist in a thoroughly possessive fashion. The arm stayed in place through the subway, and then the walk from station to Beckett’s small apartment.

He gazed around her home, transfixed. The only other places he’d seen that many books were his own study and the New York Public Library. They were everywhere: in bookcases, on shelves, in piles on the floor; on the coffee table and on the couch. Lost in literary heaven, he failed to notice Beckett detaching herself from him, taking off her jacket, and putting on the kettle; but instead wandered around, picking up and putting down, noting with awe a copy of Chekov in the original Russian; and then practically every classic crime novel ever written: Sayers, Christie, Marsh, Hammett, Allington, Crispin; below them, the modern authors – himself included – then more classics, this time in English…. It was his dream. He sat down in a daze, and reached for _Murder Must Advertise_.

“What are you doing?” Beckett’s clear tones, surprise gleaming on them, cut through his absorption. “Put my book down.”

“You’ve got books,” he said stupidly.

“Yes. Most educated people have books. Did you think because I’m a cop I didn’t read?”

“No, but most people don’t have _this_ many books.”

“If you ask _have you read them all_ I’ll throw them at your head.”

Castle regarded her with a pained, long-suffering expression. “I would never,” he said. “Though you should come and see my collection.”

“Come up and see my etchings? How clichéd. That’s even older than you.”

“I’m not old!” he squawked, and then his tone changed. “But I am mature. Experienced.” He waggled his eyebrows. “So, detective, would you like to come and see my collection? After we’ve had, um, coffee, like you promised.”

“Ah, yes,” Beckett said briskly, and followed it with a mischievous and overtly sexy smile. “Coffee. Was that really why you came back with me?”

“If that’s what you’re offering me. I’m open to suggestions,” he smirked, deeply suggestively. 

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

“No. But although you _implied_ that we should do some more kissing, in your apartment, you never actually said so. Therefore, my sneaky detective, I think you were trying to discombobulate me by pointing that out – at an appropriate moment, of course. How unkind.” He grinned evilly.

Beckett scowled.

“Cross that I caught you out? You were planning it, weren’t you? And while I would be delighted to kiss you _properly_ , I’m not going to. Unless you want me to, of course.”

Beckett scowled even more blackly, and added a growl.

“Please may I have my coffee before you super-heat it with that glare? I mean, it’s a really impressive glare, but I don’t want to be scalded and I really don’t want you to burn laser holes though my muscular torso. It would totally ruin my ruggedly handsome build.”

She choked. “Is that an eclipse or is your ego blocking the sun?”

Castle laughed, and took a step towards her. “Now I _really_ want to kiss you. Can I use that line in a book?”

Glare switched to stunned stare. “You what now?”

“I like it. Can I use it in a book? And do you have any more like that, because they’re great?”

Somehow, Beckett felt that she’d totally lost control of the situation. She’d meant to let Castle make his moves, and then cut him down, and instead he’d spotted the trap, avoided it, and was now making a mockery of her snark. “You don’t mean that. You’re just winding me up.”

“I do mean it. I don’t joke about my writing. I want that line.”

“You mean it?”

“Yes, I mean it,” Castle said, with more than a hint of exasperation. He dug out a small black notebook and promptly wrote it down. “There. Now I won’t forget it.” He took cognisance of Beckett’s stunned-ox expression and dropped jaw. “What? I said, I meant it. So I wrote it down.”

He’d _meant_ it? Beckett’s brain defaulted to _urk_ , which didn’t help her much. She managed both to shut her mouth _and_ not emit the _urk_ , which counted as a double win. Unfortunately, set against the last few moments’ losses to Castle’s far-too-clever deductions, it still left her decidedly in second place.

And not only that, but Castle was now far too close. She could, for the first time – or maybe it was the first time she’d consciously noticed – smell the aroma of a spicy, masculine cologne; she could see the movement of his muscles as he breathed; she suddenly _realised_ how big and broad he was. She hadn’t _looked_ at a man in years, but suddenly she was _looking_ at this one.

And he knew it. Light amusement was altering to reciprocated interest; eyes darkening and heating, a wolfish smile playing about his mouth.

“Like what you see?” he asked. “’Cause you’re looking pretty hard.”

She couldn’t stop her eyes dropping below his waist. “That’s you,” she said – and gasped at her own stupidity in engaging. This was crazy. This was absolutely, utterly, batshit crazy.

He took another step: now right up close.

Close enough to –

She kissed him. Hauled his head down and kissed him: full force, full on: too much time in celibacy shrivelling in a hot flame of insanity and lust. She raided, ravaged, and simply _took_ , everything she wanted; everything she could; everything he gave.

He gave her everything, and when her first assault burned out, he began to take on his own account, exploring her mouth, arms around her; a hand on her ass, one sliding up into her hair; holding her to his hard body. She softened into him as he pressed her closer, one of her hands at his neck, one sliding under his shirt and on to the firm muscles of his back. When his clever, searching fingers untucked her soft cotton t-shirt and slid over her skin, she lost all sense of time and place, falling into his knowing touch and expert hands. She pushed closer, brought a leg round his hip to pull him into her, began to take again, heated and desperate, nails beginning to bite into his skin as she fought to conquer his mouth; small noises of need and want escaping.

Castle, instant rush of sheer _want_ notwithstanding, preserved at least a handful of brain cells from the fusion reaction that Beckett kissing him had ignited, and devoted those brain cells to ensuring that he merely followed where she led. He had half an inkling that he shouldn’t let this go too far, in case she decided that it had all been a huge mistake. Not that she was indicating any hint of a mistake, or indeed of stopping. All Castle’s experience told him that this was a woman who’d been deprived of, um, well… _intimacy_ for some time, and was intent on making up for it, all at once. He could help with that, oh yes. Without even taking his – or her – clothes off. Much.

His hand slid over her ass, along and under her thigh, lifting it higher so that she was opened against his hard bulk, then rolled his hips into her, rubbing. When he pulled back very slightly, she made a tiny noise of protest, kissing him harder, trying to spur him on, but it turned to a long-breathed sigh of pleasure when his fingertips slipped around to come between them and delicately pop the button of her jeans, then slide the zipper down. She wriggled, but it surely wasn’t away; whimpered, but not in objection. Her hands tightened on him, and her hips curved into his hand, inviting him further, closer, deeper. He felt dampness, stroked through thin fabric, and she moved against it in timeless rhythm, faster, harder, and sighed softly and sank into his ready arms. It seemed the perfect opportunity to repair to the couch, keeping her tight in his embrace, wrapping her in.

A moment later, she turned her head on his shoulder and kissed his neck. He moved in turn, and took her mouth again: gently, this time, teasing; then pulled back a little.

“You okay?” he asked. “That…”

“Yeah. I didn’t…but it’s good.” Her head fell back on to his shoulder, and she nestled into him. He thought she was seeking affection, and supplied it with an all-enveloping embrace, pulling her amazing legs up so that she was cuddled into his lap and definitely not able to run away without him noticing. 

Oh. Oh. Uh…wasn’t that a tad possessive for barely a week’s acquaintance and a single heavy petting session? But Beckett was curled like a cat in his lap, delightfully eased and relaxed and snuggly, her hair tickling his chin, her arm around his waist, and truth to tell, he didn’t want the moment ever to end. It felt…right, in a way that very little in his non-writing life (except his daughter) ever had. He stroked her side undemandingly, and tried not to think of his still highly aroused state.

Beckett wasn’t thinking at all. She was happily bathing in the warmth of Castle’s broad chest, and not thinking at all. Gradually, she became aware that although she was totally relaxed, he was, um, not relaxed at all. She ought to do something about that, she thought lazily, and turned a little to nibble at his neck. It had a most interesting effect, though she couldn’t move much, since his arms had clamped tightly around her. She wriggled, and straddled him, which only allowed her to feel exactly how excited she’d made him. That would be _very_. She wiggled again, opened to his hard kiss, and let the fire take her.

Castle hoisted Beckett up, looked around, and identified immediately the only door that could hide a bedroom. She’d made her desire utterly clear, and he wasn’t going to say _no_ to her now. Anything but. He toed the door wide, carried her in, and laid her on the bed, not ceasing to kiss her for an instant, driving his own desire into her mouth: tasting and teasing, passionate and powerful. He lifted off, shucked her jeans in one movement, her t-shirt flew over her head, leaving her in cotton bra and panties, in not-quite-matching dark blue. His shirt hit the floor, he stripped off his pants, watched all the while by her sleepy, sexy eyes, until he lay down beside her again and pulled her in; an arm beneath her neck, the other stroking down her back until he slipped it over her ass and brought one leg up around his thigh to press her close against his full hard weight.

“You sure?” he murmured.

“No” – his heart dropped – “I always get half-naked with men when I’m not sure. Of course I’m sure. Now shut up and kiss me.”

He obeyed – but then he had another thought. “Protection?”

“I’m covered, but…” She trailed off, strangely embarrassed, he thought, by having to say _I want you to use something too_.

“I get it. Have you any, or…”

“Or?”

“In my wallet.”

“Better find them.”

He hopped off the bed, raided his pants’ pockets, found his wallet and extracted three little foil packets, then returned, dropping them on the nightstand in easy reach. “Now,” he rumbled, “where were we?”

“Here.” She raided his mouth, giving no quarter, heat flaring between them, until, overcoming his initial shock, he fought back, sallying on his own account, using size and strength to hold her to his angle of attack and convince her to surrender. When his fingers slipped into the wet heat between her legs, stroking her with her own panties, she gave in on a sigh and a squirm of pure lust; relaxing into his expertise and assurance. She found the edge of his boxers and tugged them away, leaving him naked: his impressive package right there for her to explore. She wasn’t shy about it, palming and gripping, sliding up and down and feathering over the head of the firm shaft; playing with the velvet-coated weight behind, returning to the front. Her bra had gone, and he glided her panties down and off: she sheathed him, pulled him over her and guided him home.

He pushed forward slowly: he’d received the definite impression that she’d been alone for a while, and he wasn’t small. The last thing he’d ever want to do was hurt anyone through, um, over-enthusiasm. Beckett didn’t seem to think that enthusiasm would be a problem; but a little delicacy now would be best. He slid further, and all the way home, and she gasped; nails biting on his shoulders, legs around his waist, her mouth becoming frantic on his as he began to move and she matched him; finding a rhythm that worked – oh, _fuck_ it worked: he couldn’t remember the last time it had been this hot and then he simply gave himself up to the movement and the magnificence of her body around his and then hard, fast release for both of them.

He rolled them over, and cuddled her against him: unwilling to allow her to slide even an inch away. “You’re amazing,” he murmured. She made a soft noise, and wriggled into a more comfortable position, still draped across him, playing with the hair on his chest, head over his heart.

“You too,” she breathed, and curled closer. 

After a while, she stretched. “I wanna clean up.”

“Ooohhh, shower time,” Castle suggested.

“No space. It’s tiny. Let me clean up, then you can.”

“Okay.” Castle was quite happy to stay put in Beckett’s bed, and consider his options. While he was totally delighted with the outcome of the afternoon, he was, unusually, deeply concerned that she might regard it as a one-time thing, rather than something that should be repeated as often as possible. In an effort to distract himself, he gazed around, and spotted a very familiar black book on the nightstand. Her diary – with his additions. He didn’t touch it. He would _not_ look and see whether she’d written anything more. He wouldn’t.

His good resolutions were severely tested, but fortunately Beckett returned, damp and tousled and utterly desirable, before his fingers made it to the binding. 

“Your turn,” she said, and began, unselfconsciously, to dress. He watched her, and only when she began to don her jeans again, went to the bathroom and a much-needed shower.

Beckett hadn’t entirely wanted to dress, but five years of more-or-less celibacy and a certain slight soreness as she’d washed left her in no doubt that she’d like to be able to walk normally the next day. Besides which, Castle might – could well – think that this was a one-off. His reputation wasn’t exactly for commitment or long-term. Her heart sank a little. She hadn’t meant to fall into bed at all, but it had been wonderful, and she wanted to do it again – just not right now. She chose her go-to option, filled the kettle, and switched it on. Coffee fixed everything, she knew.

The doorbell rang.

Beckett jumped. She wasn’t expecting anyone: she hadn’t made any arrangements – not that there were many people to make arrangements with even if she had wanted to socialise, which she didn’t. Too many co-workers looking for an excuse to cut her down. She’d established a tentative rapport with Dr Parrish, the ME, but that was it. No-one should be ringing her doorbell on a Saturday late afternoon.

Unless. Oh, God, no. Please no. Please, God, no.

She opened the door. She couldn’t have done anything else: forgetting Castle in her shower, forgetting all her hopes.

“Dad.”


	7. Chapter 7

“Dad,” she said again, flatly. “What are you doing here?”

“Come t’ see you,” he slurred. “You di’n’t come see me.”

“No.”

“Why di’n’t you come get me?”

“Because you were drunk,” she bit. “Not ill, not dying. Just drunk. You got arrested, but that’s your problem now.”

“Wha’? No. You go’ t’ get me. I’m your dad.”

“No. I’m never going to come and bail you out again. You’re on your own. I don’t want you here. Go home. Don’t call me again unless you’re dry. I don’t want to know.” 

She hadn’t allowed him past the door. Now, she began to close it. 

“You can’t do this! I’m your dad. You owe me respec’.”

“Respect yourself. If you don’t, why should I? Go home.”

“Won’ go home. You need t’ look after me.”

“No.”

He tried to step forward, but she stopped him with a hand on his chest.

“Lemme in.”

“No.”

His face changed from drunken bewilderment at her obstinacy to anger as it penetrated his fuddled mind that she wouldn’t let him in; wouldn’t support him; wouldn’t bail him out of the tank.

“You got to lemme in.”

“No.”

Rage flashed into life. “You have to. I brought you up an’ you owe me.”

“I owe you _nothing_ ,” she whipped back. “You’ve been drunk for five years when I needed you to be there and now you need me so you’ve come crawling, still drunk. I’m not doing it any more.”

“You _bitch_ ,” he yelled. “You’re not my daughter.”

“No. Now _go home_. I’m _done_.” She imbued her last two words with full command force, and pushed him backwards. The door shut in his face. Through it, she could hear his drunken cursing, moving away, and then quiet. She stumbled to her couch and collapsed into it: frozen, devastated.

Done.

“Are you okay?”

Oh, God. She’d forgotten he was there. She couldn’t bear it. She had to be alone.

“Please just go home. Leave me – let me – I need to be alone.” Her face was frozen, her eyes looking into the abyss. “Just go. Please go.”

He couldn’t bear her expression: the glacial cold that was freezing her emotions away. What would happen when it melted, when the flood was released to inundate her fragile control? He looked at her again.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yes.” No room for doubt remained. “Thank you for lunch,” she added, in a still, small voice. It sounded very like _Goodbye_.

“Okay.” But instead of turning to the door, instead, first, he turned to her; pulled her in, held her close, trying to give her, show her, all the warmth and affection that her father’s bitter, biting words had destroyed. She didn’t react in the slightest, but when he released her, and looked one final time at her face, her eyes were full.

He left, before he had to see her cry.

As he closed the door, he thought he heard her sob.

***

As he closed the door, she let herself grieve, letting the hot, acid tears fall; sobbing over the loss of her father, mourning the attack that had killed her mother and now her father. It wasn’t her father, shouting foul words through her door; just a bitter, broken drunk.

Her father – her beloved dad – had died with her mother, and now she had to accept that. Five years of grief swallowed her up; drowned her.

A long time later, she staggered into her bedroom, stripped, and without even brushing her teeth, collapsed into bed, cried dry.

***

Castle dragged himself home, wishing with every step and moment that he could have stayed, but already, even after only a few days, he knew, deep down to the bottom of his soul, that Beckett wouldn’t let anyone see her in a moment of weakness. So he’d gone, as she’d asked.

But he would be back tomorrow. He’d call, to find out where she was, and then come see her. If nothing else, she could surely use some comfort, and Castle was a great believer in the power of comforting hugs. He was also a great believer in the power of comforting words, and at the back of his devious mind was the idea that he might leave some comforting words in her diary.

Her locked-down control nagged at his mind all evening, after he’d collected Alexis and received a second-by-second account of the birthday party; after he’d made and they’d eaten dinner; after Alexis had gone to bed and he’d repaired to his study, officially to write. Instead, he settled his feet on the desk and leaned back, thinking hard.

As he’d stepped out of the bathroom, he’d heard the voices, and on noticing Beckett’s frozen, furious tones had unashamedly listened to every word. Now, he had time to ponder them, and already he didn’t like the direction of his thinking. She’d been – her diary had told him so – pretty close to the edge when she _was_ rescuing her father. How much closer would she be when she _wasn’t_?

Or…would not rescuing him allow her to save herself? Maybe this was her nadir, her rock bottom, the turning point where she could recover? Maybe she had to hit bottom before she realised that she couldn’t do it any more, and changed herself, as she couldn’t change her father?

He’d kill to see her diary right now. He wondered if she’d be writing in it, that small, smooth handwriting putting down bleak, jagged words; or would she still be frozen on her couch, locking away all emotions? Maybe she was crying. His heart clenched: thinking of her weeping alone. She shouldn’t have to be alone.

She’d wanted to be alone. He didn’t have the right to intrude when she’d so clearly asked him to go. He’d told her he’d take _no_ for an answer, and he wouldn’t go back on his word, but he wanted to call her, reassure her, comfort her.

What the _fuck_ was he thinking? He’d known her, oh, half a minute. How could he possibly feel like this about someone he barely _knew_?

 _But you do know her_ , a little voice said. _You’ve read her diary. You know more about her than you knew about your ex-wife_. He supposed that he did, though only because Beckett had inner thoughts – indeed she had many thoughts which were not concerned with clothes, make-up, or trying to start a movie career by fucking a director. Of course, her inner thoughts were as bleak and cold as the Antarctic, and as like to freeze her to death.

On that sobering note, he forced his thoughts away from Beckett and towards Storm, which presently produced a substantial quantity of writing concerning an unhappy encounter with a drunken informant. It didn’t erase the memory of the drunken yelling, but thankfully Beckett’s father hadn’t been anywhere in the vicinity when Castle had left. Or maybe he had been, and Castle wouldn’t have noticed. Wouldn’t have known, because Beckett had no photos (or they were buried in her books) and Castle hadn’t seen her father, only heard him. 

Contrary to his morbid imaginings, when he fell asleep, he dreamed of sexy, flirtatious Beckett, and then of all the things they could do together.

***

Quite contrary to her enthusiasm of the previous day, Beckett began Sunday in a mood of deepest gloom, unleavened by her excellent coffee and delicious pastry. In fact, she barely noticed either; desperately stopping herself from calling her father and apologising, promising to do better, to come each time he called. She read and reread the words scrawled in her diary, hanging on to them as a drowning woman clutches the lifebelt thrown to her, and then turned to that day’s page.

 _Dear Diary_ , she began, and gulped. _I sent my dad away and I feel like shit. I know I have to. I can’t save him. But it’s killing me. I feel so guilty. I should be able to save him. I should be enough for him._

_But I’m not._

She stopped writing to blow her nose and mop her eyes.

_I have to keep telling myself I can’t save him. Only he can decide to save himself. I can’t do it for him. I can only walk away. I have to keep reading that other person’s words – I wish I knew who it was. They’re the only thing holding me together right now: because someone else believes that I’m doing the right thing. I’m not just the heartless bitch Dad says I am. It’s the right thing to do._

_But why is it so fucking hard? I just want Dad to stop drinking and be Dad again. I’d even put up with his fussing about why I had such awful boyfriends if he would just stop drinking. Not that I’ve got any awful boyfriends for him to fuss about._

She stopped. She might not have an awful boyfriend – or indeed any boyfriend – but she did have an, um, what exactly? It was hardly friend-with-benefits. Benefit-without-quite-being-friends, perhaps. How long would that last?

Who the hell cared? If it lasted long enough for her to dial down the guilt; if it made her forget her father’s bitter, hurtful curses; if it distracted her – that would do. If there were anything else, that would be jam in her doughnut.

And if a tiny little voice was telling her that she never got involved this fast, this soon, this hard…she ignored it. She’d be light and fun and just plain _fine_ , dammit. No more than he would want. And she would start by taking control of her day. No more moping over her coffee and wishing for things that weren’t going to happen. Instead, she’d see whether other things could happen.

She picked up her phone and tapped out a text.

***

The chirp of his phone woke Castle, somewhat later than he had intended, but since there had been no noise from Alexis, he assumed that she was still asleep. Practising for teenager-hood, he hoped. He was long over early mornings. He fumbled for the phone and found a text – from Beckett. His first thought was that she was telling him never to show up again. Trembling, he opened the text.

_Wanna hang out?_

What? Yes, of course he did.

But he couldn’t. He had to look after Alexis, who couldn’t be left to her own devices. Oh. Oh, _hell_. Beckett didn’t know he had a child, or, at least, he’d casually mentioned it, but she hadn’t asked, and now it was going to sound like an excuse. He wasn’t going to introduce Alexis to her, either. Okay, so Alexis knew he’d been hanging around the NYPD, but he’d hired a babysitter for those periods. This was entirely different. This was the weekend and he wasn’t ditching time with his daughter at the weekend no matter what else he wanted.

Life was just not fair. Why couldn’t he have both things? He morosely flicked through his email, until he heard odd noises from upstairs. On full parental alert, he hurried out of the study and up to Alexis.

“Daddy,” she whimpered. “Daddy, I don’t feel good.”

She didn’t look good, either. “What’s wrong, pumpkin?”

“Tummy’s sore.”

“Throwing up sore or other sort of sore?”

“Don’t know.”

He put a hand on her forehead, to find her hot. “I think you’ve got a fever,” he said as soothingly as his panicked parental brain could manage. “Let’s take your temperature and then we’ll call a doctor.” He dealt with the thermometer efficiently, and found that Alexis was definitely running a fever. Castle made a call, and by dint of promising largesse managed to secure the doctor’s attendance by – she promised – early afternoon.

Only then did he reply to Beckett’s text. _I’d have loved to_ , he wrote, _but my daughter’s sick. Raincheck?_

***

Beckett stared at the text, rereading it. Daughter sick? Really? Well, she’d just check that. He’d mentioned a daughter, but she wasn’t sure she believed him. Playboys didn’t have daughters. She didn’t even need the databases for that. And if she found it wasn’t true, that would be the end of this research nonsense too.

Some few cynical moments later, she was sorry for her ingrained cynicism. Richard Castle, playboy and author, did indeed have a daughter, who, Beckett estimated, must be nine or ten. Oh. She was really slipping. Montgomery had mentioned the daughter before Castle had even reached the precinct. She had to sharpen up. Poor kid, she then thought, and texted back _Raincheck accepted._ It left her with a day to fill, again, but her disappointment was tempered by the fact that at least he’d had a good reason. It didn’t exactly fit with his PR image, but it improved her view of Castle.

She desultorily searched through various informative listings, but couldn’t settle on anything. With some disbelief, she realised that her uncharacteristic indecisiveness was because she’d expected – dear God, _expected_ – to have Castle along, who would have had an opinion. She’d have ignored it, of course, but the argument would have settled her decision.

How absolutely pathetic. One week after she’d met the man and she was turning into a rambling idiot without a decisive cell in her body. Nope. And…she didn’t have to fret that he wasn’t there, either. Now would be a perfectly good time to extend her tentative acquaintance with ME Parrish, who had made vague comments that indicated possible friendliness.

She hunted through her phone and found the number.

“Dr Parrish,” a New York twang answered.

“Er, hey. Detective Kate Beckett here.”

“Hey. You got a body? ‘Cause I am _not_ on duty today.”

“Erm, no.”

“Oh?” ME Parrish’s voice cheered up instantly. “Beckett… oh, _hey_. I remember you. Looked like a supermodel with legs to Texas. What d’you want?”

“Uh, well, I thought maybe if you weren’t busy we could go get lunch or something” – her words were cut off.

“Sure. I was gonna call you but we got a queue of corpses and it went outta my head as fast as the brains came out of theirs.” Beckett squeaked in disgust. “We girls gotta stick together in this job. Where are we gonna meet? When? It’s nearly eleven now so why don’t we say twelve dead at Patsy’s, 801 Second Avenue. You get there first, mine’s a Martini. What’s yours?”

“Soda” –

“No way, Jose. You do not make my acquaintance on freakin’ _soda_. You need a proper drink. What’s it gonna be, girl?”

“Vodka tonic,” Beckett managed, almost overwhelmed by ME Parrish’s enthusiasm.

“Great. I’m Lanie. Short for Elaine, but if you call me that I’ll use my scalpels on you. Only my mom uses it, when she’s mad. So you call me Lanie and I’ll call you Kate and let’s have a good time. Seeya later.”

The call was cut. Beckett took several breaths, mainly to try to subdue the feeling of being run over by a rampaging Amtrak engine. Dr Lanie Parrish, ME, was clearly a force of nature. Possibly a tornado, or a tsunami. On the other hand, she sounded _fun_ , and Beckett was woefully short of fun. A drink or two might dull the guilt, as well, and she’d liked the look of Dr Parrish from the get-go. 

Out of some semblance of pride, she showered, styled her hair, and put on make-up, before dressing in a pair of skinny jeans and a soft sweater of which she was particularly fond. She arrived at Patsy’s a minute or two before twelve, and, failing to spot a human dynamo in the restaurant, took a table for two in a corner where she could see everyone that entered.

Two minutes later noise, fuss and bustle entered, glanced around once only, spotted Beckett and sashayed over to her table.

“Hey. Wow. You’re just as good the second time around.” Dr Parrish leered. “How’d you manage it? I mean, if I had legs like you I’d wear a mini-micro skirt and pick up all the gold fillings from the smashed teeth as men crashed into the sidewalk. I’d make a fortune.” Beckett gawped. “Stand up?” Completely dazed, Beckett did.

Dr Parrish hugged her. “You and me are gonna be friends,” she announced. “Friends hug.” She looked at Beckett’s utterly stunned mien. “Don’t get many hugs, do you? How come you don’t have a boyfriend? They should be chasing you down the street with roses and champagne.”

“Uh” –

“Or a girlfriend? I don’t care.”

“Uh” –

“Nobody?”

Beckett was _sure_ she hadn’t blushed.

“Ooooohhhhh, there is. Let’s get drinks and get properly acquainted.”

Beckett felt she needed a drink. Possibly several drinks. Lanie Parrish didn’t appear to believe in boundaries or slowing up – the last time Beckett had heard someone talking that fast it had been an amphetamine doped parrot. (It had got into its owner’s stash of pills. The results had been, um, interesting. Sadly, the parrot had expired. The owner had been utterly distraught, but his dreadful loss hadn’t saved him doing time.)

“I’m Lanie. ME. Lifelong New Yorker except for Johns Hopkins. You?”

“Lifelong New Yorker, and NYU,” Beckett said, not mentioning Stanford, so that she didn’t have to explain why she’d transferred.

“Guess you’re a bit younger than me,” Lanie humphed. “I hadda do med school. Anyway, I’d have noticed you in NYU” –

“You were there too?”

“Sure was.”

Beckett smiled. “Don’t think it’s changed any.”

“Nope. Those keggers…remember them?”

“Uh…”

“You don’t? You don’t look like the sort to get so drunk you forgot.” Lanie’s jaw dropped, which meant she actually stopped talking for more than the millisecond it apparently took her to breathe. “You didn’t go to any? How did you not go to parties?” She fixed Beckett with a hard stare. “Is that how you don’t have a boyfriend right now?” She stopped talking, again, and really looked at Beckett.

“You, girl, got a problem,” she said. “Something’s up with you that you gotta fix. Now, pour that vodka down your throat, get another one, and tell me what’s up.” She folded her arms and glared at Beckett, who had, until that moment, believed she was completely impervious to penetrating stares and ominous glares. Obediently, she tipped the vodka down. Lanie imperiously signalled for another round.

“Now, start talking.”

“I just met you,” Beckett tried to protest.

“I told you, we’re gonna be friends.” _Like it or not,_ thought Beckett. “So spill.” Beckett wondered how Lanie had been overlooked by the NYPD – as a chief interrogator. She filed mental notes, and delayed a little by sipping at her vodka and nibbling the pizza she’d ordered. Lanie’s hard stare didn’t let up for a second. Her bright nails tapped; her mouth twitched. Beckett didn’t think she’d ever seen such an effort to remain silent.

It worked. Beckett strove to resist, but Lanie’s piercing glare whittled down her resistance in seconds. It was ridiculous. She shouldn’t be so feeble.

She gave in.

“My dad’s a drunk,” she said flatly, drained her glass, and set it down with a thunk. “Five years. Since my mom was murdered. They didn’t find the killer.” She shut her mouth. 

Lanie stared at her. There was a ghastly, gaping silence, in which Beckett waited for Lanie to stand up and walk out, or, worse, try to be sympathetic.

“Well, that sucks,” she said. “I think we both need another.” She made another imperious gesture and another round appeared. “So what’re you doing about it?”

“Nothing. Captain caught me in Archives and told me to stop or be suspended. Dad – I can’t fix him. I’m not doing it any more.”

“Good.” Lanie’s brisk tones brought Beckett’s head up. “You can’t cure him. Leave him to it. He’ll die, or he won’t, but it’s not on you.”

“That’s what the other one said,” Beckett emitted.

“Other one?”


	8. Chapter 8

“In my diary.”

“Other people write in your diary? Girl, where I work we call that schizophrenia.”

“Where you work they’re already dead, so no personality at all let alone two,” Beckett flashed back, and Lanie laughed.

“That’s better. So how come someone wrote in your diary that wasn’t you?”

“Well, it wasn’t my alter ego, because she’s off partying.”

“How come,” Lanie persisted.

“Are you always this pushy?”

“Yep. My social skills are wasted on the corpses, so I have to use ‘em when I can. Don’t get much conversation in the morgue and they sure don’t look good opened up.”

Beckett muttered to herself.

“That doesn’t work on me,” Lanie noted. “My mom’s really good at that passive-aggressive muttering, and I just let it wash right over me. Bit like if I had a hot man in the shower. He could wash right over me, and under me, and round me… So what about this writing in your diary?”

“I left it in a burger bar, and it got returned to me, but someone had read it and written comments. Basically, leave Dad to it and save myself.” Beckett’s tones were hard and cold, damming up all her emotions.

“They weren’t wrong.”

“Yeah. They’re not the ones having to do it. Dead easy to say what you should do. Not so easy to shut the door in his face or refuse to go bail him out.”

“Nope. But you did, didn’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“So you’re winning.”

“Doesn’t feel like it.”

“Now, next up, what about this _uh_ thing that’s not a boyfriend and not a girlfriend but makes you blush?

“Huh?”

“Well, you’re fixing the big problem, so you don’t need to talk about it any more.” Lanie made a brushing-off gesture. “Why waste time on something you got a handle on when we can talk about men – or women, if that’s how you roll?”

“Men,” Beckett said, largely for fear of being propositioned. Lanie looked as if she might be fairly…umm…indiscriminate in her selection, and Beckett didn’t do girls. Already, despite the juggernaut approach, she’d decided she liked Lanie, and she didn’t want that to be spoilt by turning down an advance.

“Good. I don’t do girls. No objection in principle, I’m just not interested. So, men.” She grinned lecherously. “You got this _uh_. What’s an _uh_ when it’s in bed? Or is it more of an _ohhhhhhh_? Don’t tell me it’s an _ugh_.”

“Not an ugh,” Beckett choked, thinking of how very much _not_ ugh Castle had been.

“Well, that’s a relief. Trust me, the only solution to an _ugh_ in bed is to ditch the guy. They never get better.” Beckett gleeped. Lanie caterpillar-tracked right on over her. “You gotta have that spark. You get it with this guy?” Beckett spluttered and choked as her vodka went down the wrong way. “I guess that means yes. So how come he’s only an _uh_ and not a boyfriend?”

“I only met him a week ago,” Beckett defended herself.

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Lanie asked, completely sincerely. “If you got that spark, go for it.” She considered. “He’s not another cop, is he? That would be a bit difficult.”

“No.”

“So what’s his name? Details, girl. Give me details. We’ll turn him into your boyfriend before he knows it.”

“What?”

“Girl,” said Lanie, in tones of strained, but infinite, patience, “if you got a spark with him, you don’t let him get away. Dating 101. Now, details.”

“Why aren’t you telling me about your boyfriend?”

“Because I haven’t got one right now,” Lanie sulked. “As soon as I mention I’m an ME they run for the hills – or worse, they get creepy about seeing autopsies. This job is no good for finding boyfriends,” she grumped, and drained her third Martini, which appeared to have had precisely no effect on her effervescing personality and complete lack of inhibitions or discretion. “So spill. Name, job, how you met, rating out of ten in bed…c’mon.” She smirked evilly. “Especially the rating, so when you ditch him I’ll know whether it’s worth me picking him up.”

“You pick up sloppy seconds?”

“Nope, I wait for a good performance rating and pick up the best, field tested.”

Beckett hesitated.

“Talk, or it’s more rounds until you do.”

“Oh, _okay_. I could really get to not like you, you know.”

“You love me already,” Lanie said smugly. “And just wait till we get to chop corpses together.”

“I don’t do chopping. I just get the results.”

“Oh, you have to come down and see what they are. Rite of passage.”

“Done that.”

“Throw up?” Lanie enquired interestedly.

“Nope. Not so much as a squiggle in my stomach.”

“Impressive. You can visit my slab any time.” Lanie smiled. “And now that we’ve finished that distraction” – _Dammit_ , Beckett thought – “back to the real fun chat. Name, job, how you met, hotness level…”

 _This is not fair_ , Beckett howled inside her head. Her mouth opened without her consent. “He wanted to ask a cop about some technical issues,” she said.

“Oh?”

“He’s a writer.”

“Ooohhh. Would I have heard of him?”

“Probably not,” Beckett outright lied. Given that his books were in every bookstore at every station and Main Street, she didn’t think she’d get away with it.

“Try me. What’s his name?”

 _Shit_.

“Richard Castle,” she grudged.

“ _Richard Castle_?” Lanie half-screeched.

“Shhhh!”

“ _Richard Castle_ is your _uh_? You are clinically insane. He is officially the shit-hottest man on the streets right now. And you think he’s an _uh_?” You are batshit crazy. Why are you here when you could be scorching the sheets with _him_?”

“His daughter’s sick.”

Lanie’s tirade came to a screeching halt. “Awww. All that hotness _and_ a good dad – hang on. He’s not married, is he?”

“Divorced. Years ago.”

“Did you run him?”

“Didn’t need to. It was in all the celebrity gossip.”

“Oh, good. So all that hotness and a good dad. Get your freak on, Kate. He’s the unicorn!”

“They call him the White Whale in the gossip columns.”

“What’s that got to do with anything? It’s his horn I’d be interested in.” She waggled her manicured eyebrows, and leered.

Beckett choked again. “You’re _outrageous_ ,” she coughed.

“Yep. So was it good?”

“What?”

“Bed, dumbo! Is he as hot as he looks?”

“I don’t kiss and tell,” Beckett stated. “We are not discussing this.”

“We don’t need to. Those scarlet cheeks of yours are just as good as a full on dissection. I guess he’s pretty good.”

Beckett preserved an entirely bland face with considerable difficulty.

Lanie giggled. “Okay, I’ll stop. Promise. Let’s have another and some dessert to soak it up.”

“I can’t face another,” Beckett admitted. “I’ll get coffee with my dessert.”

“How do you stay that slim?” Lanie griped, as Beckett worked her way through a huge piece of apple pie with ice-cream. “If I ate all that I’d be a beachball, not an ME.”

“I run.”

“Ugh,” Lanie said with venom. “If I try that I get two black eyes.”

“You need a better sports bra,” Beckett noted, with only a little malice in return for Lanie’s interrogation. “Then they don’t bounce.”

“These girls bounce no matter what,” Lanie grumped.

“Suck it up,” Beckett suggested.

“Like they do down at the strip clubs? I get better paid as an ME.”

Beckett’s slurp of coffee hit the table.

“Don’t waste it,” Lanie chided.

“Are you always like this?”

“Yep. The morgue is pretty dismal. So I enjoy the rest of my life as much as I can. Wishing you hadn’t met me?”

“Nope. I think I like you, even if you’ve got no boundaries and no limits.”

“I think I like you too, even if you’re as buttoned-up as a blazer and find it really hard to share.”

They grinned at each other.

“Key question,” Beckett said, “do you drink coffee? Because I can’t be friends with _anyone_ who doesn’t like coffee.”

“I’m a _doctor_. What the hell do you think I live on?”

“Martinis, by the glasses on the table.”

“Only off-duty. On duty it’s coffee. Guess that means we’re friends, then?”

“I guess we are.”

Some considerable time later, they wobbled companionably out of Patsy’s to the subway, and wobbled their separate ways home.

Through her fuzzy head – three vodkas was about half a vodka more than Beckett’s present, unpractised, tolerance – Beckett decided that Dr Lanie definitely-not-Elaine Parrish, ME, was a good thing. She could use a friend.

Her mind floated softly on a little pink fluffy cloud of vodka tonics to thoughts of Castle. He wasn’t exactly a friend. He wasn’t exactly a boyfriend. Still, Lanie’s repeated characterisation of him as an _uh_ wasn’t fair either. Just because she’d been unable to think of a fast answer, didn’t make him an _uh_. He was an, um, _benefit_. Yeah. Benefit.

Maybe she should text him. Just for reassurance, to confirm that she wasn’t mad that they couldn’t meet. In her pink fuzzy haze, it seemed like a good plan, so she did. _Hey. Hope all okay. KB._ She hadn’t received a response by bedtime, which was…disheartening.

***

While Beckett was making new friends, Castle was having a most unpleasant afternoon dealing with his daughter’s unhappy state. His worries were entirely un-alleviated by a call from the mother of yesterday’s birthday girl, who informed him that one of the other attendees had shown up despite having been ill the night before, and now her daughter and a number of the others were also ill. Castle, she informed him, could look forward to a day which would include rather too much inversion of his daughter’s stomach for anyone’s comfort. He called the doctor, explained, and was told that she didn’t need to visit, but that he should keep a bowl handy, disinfect everything so that he had least chance of also catching it, and keep Alexis on plain toast (if she wanted anything, which the doctor doubted) and sips of water at regular intervals until she hadn’t vomited for at least 24 hours.

He sat with her all day, and then all evening, until she seemed better, and fell into a more restful sleep. Consumed by concern, he’d barely managed to read, let alone find or look at his phone, and by the time Alexis was asleep he was worn out; fit only for sleep himself.

The next morning, his first act on waking, even before he washed, was to check on Alexis. To his enormous relief, her temperature was normal and she was sound asleep; still rather pale but not the ghastly greenish tint of the previous day. He heaved a sigh, returned to perform some badly needed ablutions, and then made himself breakfast with stronger coffee than he would normally have had. All that ingested, and with no noise from upstairs, he finally settled himself in his study and opened his laptop to write.

As ever, the mere act of opening a document instantly sent Castle down a path of procrastination. This morning, it started with an urge to play games on his phone. He patted his pockets, searched around the desk, and failed to find it. He searched his bedroom, and failed to find it. He searched the kitchen and family room, but it wasn’t there either. Finally, he went back upstairs, searched for some time, and eventually located it in Alexis’s bathroom. It was out of charge. He cursed it liberally under his breath, put it on the charger, and in huge frustration shot online aliens until he felt better and the phone had more or less powered up to a point where he could turn it back on.

When he did, he found Beckett’s text, sent early yesterday evening. A little curl of warmth grew in his chest. She _liked_ him. She – and he knew her demons, which he had thought to be all-encompassing – had taken the time to check in on him.

Oh. Oh, shit. She’d checked in and now it was more than half a day later and he hadn’t even replied. That wasn’t going to help anyone. He grabbed the phone. _Sorry_ , he texted, _my daughter was really sick and this is the first moment I’ve had to do anything. Thanks for checking on me. I’m fine – so far, but this thing seems to be really infectious so even if she were better I wouldn’t be at the precinct later. You really don’t want to catch this thing. It’s possible she threw up her toenails. I haven’t checked her feet for their absence, though. RC._

And then he had another good idea.

***

Beckett, deep in a piece of data tracing which was both difficult and required intense attention to detail, ignored the cheep of her phone. If she lost her place, she’d never find it again without starting from the beginning. When she finally gave her results to the senior detective, and had a moment to blink, she read the text and, much to her surprise, was deeply disappointed. Now that it definitely wasn’t happening, she realised that, under everything, she’d been looking forward to Castle turning up with his particular brand of hyper-active thinking and – admit it – flirtation. She growled at her own susceptibility, and put her head down again. Work buried disappointment, till some way past shift-end, when she trailed home to her empty, depressing apartment.

She stopped short at her door. There, sitting staring at her, was a package: approximately four feet high, two feet wide, and two feet long. Cuboid, in fact. She stared back at it. It wasn’t making any suspicious noises. She squatted down and examined it with care. It was a box, in plain wrappings, neatly addressed to her in a flowing, typeset, script. She thought. The last time she’d seen that typesetting it had been –

Oh. Oh my. She slammed her door open, took the box inside, and ripped off the wrappings.

She’d been right. It was a beautiful bouquet of flowers – _not_ roses, which she’d have decried as a lazy cliché, but lilies and others she couldn’t identify. It was _gorgeous_ , and exactly to her taste. With it, there was a short note.

 _Thought you’d like these. Brighten your day. RC_.

They certainly did. She found a large crystal vase, and arranged them nicely, then put the whole affair on her dining table and admired it as she ate her ready-meal dinner, without alcohol, yesterday having left her with an ample sufficiency of fuzziness for one week.

After dinner, she contemplated the beautiful flowers, and then had just settled herself to compose a thank-you text when her doorbell rang. Before answering, this time, she put on the chain, and only opened it that widely.

Her heart dropped and her temper rose as she saw her father, stoop-shouldered, clothes stained – she didn’t want to know with what they were stained – and, clearly, aggressively drunk. Again.

“What?” she said baldly.

“Lemme in. I wanna talk to you.”

“No.” She shut the door in his face, went back, and tried to find consolation in the flowers. Since her father began to ring the doorbell again, and did so continuously for the next ten minutes, the flowers didn’t help much. Castle should have sent a bouncer, she thought bitterly, and pressed _Send_ on her thank-you text. 

After ten minutes of bell-pounding and shouting, a different voice could be heard in the hallway. It spoke in tones of absolute authority. Her father shut up. The bell rang once, again. Beckett, thoroughly miserable, answered.

She was faced by a uniformed officer. “Miss Beckett?” he said.

“ _Detective_ Beckett.”

The officer shut his mouth on whatever he had planned to say, and clearly reorganised his thoughts. “This man claims to be your father.”

“He is my father.” She took a breath. “But he is not welcome in my home and I told him that only yesterday. He’s a drunk, and I’m not taking care of him any more. Arrest him if that’s what you’re here for, but don’t call me to bail him out, because I won’t.”

“But you have” –

“Show me any law that says I have to bail out any criminal, Officer? Because there is none, and if you try to insist I’ll make sure that your sergeant knows about it. From one cop to another, let’s not have an argument. I’m not going to complain that you’re arresting him, because frankly, it’s a relief. Take him away.”

“Yes’m,” the officer managed, completely dumbfounded. “Good night, ma’am.”

Beckett shut the door with controlled force, fell on to the couch, and tried desperately not to cry. She could think of only one thing that might soothe her misery.

_Dear Diary. Dad came back tonight, still drunk, still angry. I shut the door on him again. He kept ringing and swearing until someone must have called the cops. He’s been arrested, I think. I feel shit about it, again, but I just can’t give in. Why’s it so hard? It’s not fair: I lost Mom and now I’ve lost Dad too. He said yesterday I’m not his daughter. I guess I’m an orphan. Maybe I deserve it. I thought things were getting better. Castle… he sent flowers. They’re lovely, but they don’t make up for no family. I made a new friend – ME Lanie Parrish. She’s not the same as family either, but at least she says I’m doing the right thing._

_Fuck, it hurts. What good am I to anyone? Can’t support Dad without killing myself, can’t find Mom’s murderer without getting fired. Can’t do anything, really. Just go to work, come home, sleep, repeat._

_What’s the point? What’s the fucking point of it all?_

She pushed the diary away, not noticing – and if she had she wouldn’t have cared – that it slid off the other side of the table and crashed, open, on the floor. Her head fell on to her crossed arms, and she sniffed, then gave up the fight to control her emotions. Eventually, again, she stumbled to wash and go to bed.

But she’d kept strong for another day. She’d let him sink by himself, for another day.

She cried herself to sleep, for another day.


	9. Chapter 9

Castle received Beckett’s text with delight, but didn’t push his luck by calling or texting back. Alexis having mostly recovered during the day, he expected that he’d be able to go to the precinct and quiz Beckett some more the next evening. He slept like a baby, and woke to find that Alexis was wholly better and deeply unimpressed by being restricted to toast for breakfast. Still, she couldn’t go to school today either, which provoked a bout of tears and complaints which lasted until he found a schoolwork site on his laptop that kept her quiet till lunchtime. Castle spent the time arranging for a babysitter for the evening, and then outlining the next few chapters of Storm.

Strangely, outlining Storm wasn’t as satisfying as usual. The story kept trying to introduce a new female character, who bore a distinct resemblance to Detective Kate Beckett. She just wouldn’t get out of his head. Eventually, and in some desperation, he roughed her out, namelessly, in a different document, and left her there until he should have need for a new character. Which, he thought irritably, was not in this Storm book. Fortunately for his temper and his pen, writing out the character description had evicted a fictional female detective from his brain, and left him well-placed to outline more Storm. He wrote happily until his phone told him it was lunchtime, made them both lunch, found Alexis both more school-type sites and a good book suitable for ten-year-olds, and wrote on equally happily until the babysitter arrived and he could depart for the precinct and Kate Beckett.

He slipped quietly into the precinct. He didn’t explore his own reasoning (or instinct) for not alerting Beckett to his presence, but he thought it would be interesting to see her when she wasn’t on alert.

He’d only made one mistake with that thought – assuming that Beckett wasn’t permanently on alert. The set of her shoulders and the rigidity of her spine screamed tension; and without even seeing her face he knew that her brow was furrowed and her eyes hard-focused on her work. As he watched, Roy emerged from his office, and summoned her. 

“Sir,” she said, and obeyed as if she were being taken to the place of execution. Castle waved vaguely at a few people he recognised, and planted himself at Beckett’s desk, from where he could just about see her frozen posture at parade rest in Montgomery’s office. Some few minutes later, she exited, still completely frozen faced, and sat down at her desk with an air of suppressed fury.

“Hey,” he said. An incomprehensible noise emerged. “Are you okay?”

“Fine.”

Castle accurately translated this as _I am not at all fine but I don’t want to discuss it_ , and sensibly didn’t discuss it. He achieved this only by biting his tongue until he swore he could taste blood, but instead asked about locating fleeing suspects.

“I would put out a BOLO.”

“Storm can’t do that, though.”

“Why didn’t he put a tracker on the car?”

Castle stared at her. “Have you read my manuscript? How did you guess he had a chance to put a tracker on the car?”

“Because it’s obvious. If he got close enough to ID this guy reliably he was close enough to tag his car.”

“Mm?”

“Witness evidence is usually dubious. People don’t see what they think they saw, or their prejudices get in the way.”

“But in the movies” –

“If you believe what you see in the movies or on cop shows you’re a lot less intelligent than you’re made out to be in the gossip rags – and they don’t talk about the size of your IQ very often.”

“I think you just insulted me.”

“Do you believe what you see on TV?”

“Not more than once a month, and never if it’s a politician talking – of any stripe.”

“Then I didn’t insult you, did I?”

Castle parsed both statements carefully, and regarded Beckett with some admiration. “No, you didn’t. But it sounded like you did, which is quite a feat.” It had also sounded deeply bitter, which wasn’t such a feat. He decided the time was ripe for some distraction. “Shift’s over, you haven’t lifted your pen for ten minutes, it must be coffee or dinner time. Come on, I’m hungry.”

Beckett regarded him bleakly. “I’m not hungry.”

“So have coffee. C’mon.” He batted his blue eyes appealingly and acquired a pathetic air.

“Okay.” She stood up, unenthusiastically, and shrugged into her jacket.

Castle waited until they were quite definitely alone in the elevator and then bestowed a bear hug and a kiss on the top of her head on Beckett’s bowed form. She had barely started squawking when he let go of her and stood safely out of range in case anyone else should get in, and was a good foot apart from her when they exited. Naturally, that was self-preservation. Beckett was still growling threateningly. She really hadn’t appreciated the hug like she should have. Equally naturally, as soon as they were out of range of the precinct, Castle doubled down on his mischief and wrapped an arm around her.

Completely unnaturally, Beckett nestled in.

“You wanted a hug?” Castle squeaked. “But you _growled_ at me.”

“No PDA in the precinct. That includes the elevators.”

“So I can hug you now?”

“If it makes you happy.”

“No, it has to make _you_ happy. No point hugging you if it makes you unhappy.”

“It’s better than the alternative,” she grudged.

“I could improve it,” he purred, and when she looked up waggled his eyebrows and then produced a heated gaze. She rolled her eyes at him. “Coffee and hugs. That would improve everything. Though you ought to eat.

“I had lunch. I’m not hungry.”

Castle dropped it, but decided that he’d get a second spoon for dessert, and then she could nibble if she wanted. He tucked Beckett in more comfortably, and waltzed them off to Remy’s, where he sat next to her and put his arm back around her, ordering himself a nice juicy cheeseburger. Beckett declined anything except a barrel-sized latte.

“Is your daughter better?” she asked. “Stomach bugs are hell.” It was a thin, febrile attempt at conversation.

“Yeah. Thanks for the message.”

“’S okay. Thanks for the flowers. You didn’t need to send them.”

“And you don’t need to make conversation,” Castle said bluntly. “Just sit and be peaceful. There’s no need to try to do anything.”

“Do, or do not. There is no try,” she quoted, but the acid bite on it gave it startling pungency. She gulped, and stared down into her coffee. “I let Dad get arrested last night.”

“He came back?” Castle gasped. “Again?”

“Yeah. I wouldn’t let him in so he raised hell in the hallway and someone must’ve called the cops.” Her face contorted. “I haven’t descended to arresting him myself.”

“I guess you had good reasons? For not letting him in, I mean?” She produced a glacial stare of _keep out_. Castle backed off, fast. “I know it’s none of my business but…”

“Tell that to the Captain. It’s not his business either, but it didn’t stop him asking me what was going on.”

“Urk?”

She didn’t seem to hear the interjection, lips thin, eyes chilly. “Seems he’d found out about the arrests. Seems some meddling _asshole_ had told him I wouldn’t intervene. Seems like he’s monitoring me.” She sucked in air. “I don’t need this.”

Castle simply hugged her closer, and tried to exude comfort. He didn’t exactly feel that he was succeeding, but she wasn’t yet pulling away.

“I have to let Dad sink,” she said. “But it feels totally _shit_.” She swallowed. Castle felt in his pocket for a pack of Kleenex, but didn’t bring it out. He prided himself on being prepared – and on not being stupid. Implying that Beckett might be crying would be stupid, and possibly painful. “And I don’t need to have fucking _Montgomery_ peering over my shoulder about it either. He’s not helping.”

“Is anything helping?”

He felt a sudden tension in Beckett’s slim form, and waited through an unpleasant pause. “My diary,” she eventually said. “That helps.”

“I know what else would help,” he flirted, and instantly realised he’d chosen the wrong path as she stiffened.

“Really?” she snapped. “You have direct personal experience of a drunk father? ‘Cause if not, then you can’t help.”

“I don’t know who my father was,” Castle said, dangerously mildly. His arm dropped away from her.

Beckett coloured. “Oh.”

“But I knew plenty of people who got themselves in deep – alcohol or drugs. And they only got out when they wanted to. _If_ they wanted to.”

Now she was an ugly shade of scarlet, but she’d hit his sore spot and he simply could not stop the next words.

“So I think I have _some_ ‘direct personal experience’. Even if it’s not my father.” The sheer quietness of his tone was a biting rebuke. Beckett tried to squirm away from him, and he suddenly realised that it was only his body in the way of her leaving and never, ever, seeing him again out of total humiliation. He clamped his arm back around her. “Okay” –

“I’m sorry,” she choked out. “I’ll go now.”

“No.”

“I said, I’m going home. Let me go.”

“Look, I over-reacted too. But you shouldn’t’ve assumed I knew nothing about it.”

“I want to go home.” It repeated like a stuck record. “I have things to do.”

“Like what?”

“Just let me go home. We’re done here. I’m done. You made your point. I’m an insulting fuck-up. So I’m going to take my fucked-up self home where I can be fucked up in peace without inflicting it on you or anyone else. Thanks for the therapy. I think I’ll stick to my diary. Now move out of my way before I draw my gun.”

Castle sat still. “Nope. You’re upset – but so was I. Let’s call it quits and have dessert. And then I’ll walk you home.” He tucked her in, and patted her shoulder. “One nasty argument doesn’t mean we’re never going to see each other again.”

Abruptly, her body slumped, and she began, quite silently, to shiver. He thought she might be crying, but he couldn’t bear to find out. He cuddled her, shoved the packet of Kleenex under her nose, and ignored everything until she finally looked up through drenched eyelashes.

“Dessert,” he said firmly. “With two spoons, unless you want one of your own?”

She shook her head, and dropped her gaze again.

“Come on,” he encouraged her. “One argument isn’t a break up.” She sniffed. “We only just met. I’m not giving up on my only source of NYPD inside information.” He summoned a server, and ordered chocolate brownies with ice cream, and two spoons.

“Now I really feel like shit,” she muttered. “As if letting Dad drown wasn’t bad enough, I’m taking it out on you.”

Castle’s ready forgiveness flushed away his remaining hurt and anger almost immediately. He cuddled her in some more. “I’ve got broad shoulders,” he said. “Why don’t you just lean on one of them for a while, till you feel better.” He smiled at the server. “And here’s our dessert,” he said happily, and shoved a spoon towards her hand.

Four enjoyable mouthfuls later, it occurred to Castle that Beckett hadn’t lifted a finger to the spoon, much less eaten any of the excellent brownies. He poked her gently in the ribs. “You’re missing out. You’re not eating anything and you’ll waste away into a skeleton. Then I’ll have to find a closet for you, and I need all of my closets for my extensive collection of stylish clothing.” Beckett’s woebegone face looked up. “You just don’t get it, do you? I have a reputation to maintain. I’m a celebrity, and I need to dress like it. How’ll I look on Page Six if I’m wearing a skeleton instead of a sport jacket?” He babbled on about nothing with nonsense, until she eased within his arm. “Now, eat some brownies so I don’t get fat. I can’t afford to get fat.”

She made a noise of disapproval, which was the first non-miserable noise she’d made since he’d stopped her leaving. “Vain,” she said.

“Self-esteem,” he disagreed. “My fans wouldn’t love me half as much if I weighed three hundred pounds and dressed like a slob.”

“I thought it was about the books?” A tinge of snark laced the words, which Castle heard with some relief.

“Mostly. But fans like glamour and glitz as well.” He smirked. “Even you.”

“I do not!”

“You like me,” he provoked. “I’m glamorous and glitzy.”

“PR doesn’t make the man.”

“So you like me in spite of my fame?”

“I don’t like you at all,” she grumbled.

“Liar,” he teased. “You’re all snuggled up and cosy. Now help me finish this brownie.” He widened his eyes pleadingly at her, and curved her fingers around her spoon. She took a fragment, and then another. “It’s all finished,” he pointed out a few moments later. “I’ll get the check and then I’ll walk you home.”

She cast him a glance which made him think that she’d intended to trudge home alone, and indulge herself in unalloyed misery. He wasn’t having it. He didn’t believe in going to sleep on a quarrel, and they’d certainly had one of those; he didn’t believe in misery being its own company, and she was certainly miserable too; and finally, he didn’t believe on giving up after one setback. So he wasn’t going to give up.

Check settled, he waited politely for Beckett to precede him out of the restaurant, and then didn’t hesitate to put his arm back around her as soon as they were both on the sidewalk. “Do you need to collect your car?” he asked.

“Yes.” She still wasn’t looking at him: still, he thought, deeply and painfully embarrassed; tense, rigid and unhappy in his clasp.

“Let’s go, then.” He wanted to say more: to say _look, I get it, I saw it all. Some of those friends were as close as family and I know what I’m talking about because I tried to save them and couldn’t. I maybe shouldn’t have snapped but you hit the guilt button and it still hurts me now that I had to leave them to it. Some of them died. Killed themselves. It still stings._ Now, however, wasn’t the time. Maybe after they’d reached her apartment, maybe then, maybe later, maybe just kiss her because seeing her again after they’d fallen into bed last time made him want to tumble her into his arms and into a bed and do all the deliciously naughty things that his extensive experience and imagination could provide – and if that would drown out both of their feelings of guilt and embarrassment, well, that wasn’t a problem either.

He automatically went towards the driver’s side of the car, not realising until she tapped him.

“My cruiser. I drive it.”

“I call shotgun,” Castle teased lightly, and smiled.

“Enjoy it.”

He sat down, and yelped. “There’s something sharp in this seat.”

“That’ll be the broken spring.”

“What? Don’t they fix these things?”

“Nope. The city has a budget, and fixing cop cars isn’t at the top.”

“It should be,” Castle grumped. “That spring’s jabbing my excellent ass into hamburger.”

“Could you move your head?”

“Uh?”

“It just grew four sizes and it’s blocking the side mirror.”

“Mean,” he humphed. “I didn’t hear you criticising my ass the other night.” Beckett said nothing, extremely loudly. “In fact, you seemed to appreciate it. I know you were checking it out.”

“I was not,” Beckett said crossly, which hugely improved Castle’s mood. Anything was better than the black dog of humiliated misery.

“Were so,” he contradicted, and smirked.

“Why would I check out your ass?”

“It’s an excellent ass. Firm, well-shaped, squeezable, and attached to a ruggedly handsome, attractive man who’d like nothing more than to kiss you.” She squawked. “It’s that pout. It’s infinitely kissable.”

“I don’t pout,” she said indignantly, sounding, had she but known it, very like she must have done when she was six.

“You do, you know. It’s really cute. You should do it more often.”

“No.”

“If you pouted more often I’d kiss it more often.”

“I need to pout to be kissed? You’ve been meeting too many plastic surgery outpatients. And I _don’t_ pout.” She scowled.

Castle smiled seraphically at her for the rest of the short journey, and hopped out of the uncomfortable passenger seat thoroughly pleased with himself.

“Can I come up for coffee?” he wheedled, and tried some more batting of his eyes. All that that got him was a roll of the eyes which Beckett must have perfected as a rebellious teen.

“Yes,” she sighed out. “If only because you aren’t going to go home and I can’t bear the whining at the front door. If I wanted whining at the door I’d get a dog.” Castle produced his best puppy eyes, which never failed. “Oh, God. _Yes_ , you can come up for coffee.”

Castle’s expression abruptly altered to happy rakishness, and he took full advantage of the elevator journey to wrap her into his arms. Sadly, it was far too short to kiss her, but he remedied that lack as soon as they were fully inside her apartment.

“Are we okay now?” he asked, when he lifted away from a leisurely and fully reciprocated exploration of her lush mouth.

“I guess,” she said, but it wasn’t exactly wholesale confidence. “Shouldn’t that be, ‘Are _you_ okay now?’”

“Both of us.” Castle sat down. “You, um, caught a sore spot.” Beckett gave him an interrogative look from her post at the kettle. “It took me ages to see that I couldn’t help them unless they wanted to help themselves, and it still hurts sometimes. They were my friends.”

“Were?”

“Some of them…didn’t make it.”

Beckett winced, obviously thinking of her father.

“You can’t help him. You already decided that.”

“How did you know?”

“You said you’d let him be arrested. If you hadn’t decided that you couldn’t do anything more for him, you wouldn’t have. Ergo, you decided. And you’re beating yourself up about it even though you know you have to, just as much as I did back then – or more, because he’s your family. But” – Castle hesitated, because he knew, but couldn’t admit to knowing, that there was no mother any more – “why wasn’t your mom bailing him out?”

“Mom’s dead. Murdered.”

Castle stood, took the few strides necessary, and gathered her in. “C’mere,” he murmured. “Wanna tell me?”

“No.” He cossetted her in, waiting. “I don’t want to.” Pause. Gulp. “But I will. Someone stabbed her and left her to die in an alley. No reason. The cops said it was just some random mugging. No evidence, no clues, no answers. Dad started on the bottle straight after the funeral and hasn’t been sober for twenty-four hours together ever since.” She swallowed. “He misses her so badly.” 

Castle heard _And so do I_ quite clearly, and cossetted some more.


	10. Chapter 10

Beckett wriggled away and returned to preparing coffee. Castle followed, and crooked his arm back around her. Beckett in his arms was far preferable to Beckett anywhere else, even if she were trailing an entire pack of black dogs.

“Don’t run off,” he said plaintively. “I’ll go back to thinking you don’t like me.”

“I’m making coffee. That was what you invited yourself for.”

“Ah, but that was merely my nefarious plot to be alone with you.” He twirled an imaginary moustache in the manner of a particularly over-acted pantomime villain, and waggled his eyebrows lasciviously. “My wicked plans are coming to fruition.” Her eyes rolled so hard that they almost disappeared into the back of her head. Castle dropped a kiss on the top of her head, and smirked. “Eye rolls and snark. Almost back to normal.”

“Coffee?”

“Yes, please. And then I want a kiss.”

“ _How_ old are you?”

“Old enough to want a kiss.”

“Three, then. Three months, that is.”

“Would you like a baby?”

“You what now?” Beckett knocked the coffee tin and had to make a grab to prevent it spilling all over the floor.

“Well, you like me, but I’m not three months old, so if you want something to kiss that’s three months old you’ll need to have a baby. Happy to help you with that,” he added mischievously.

“Don’t be ridiculous! I don’t want a baby at all. I’ve known you for barely more than a week. I wouldn’t get a _goldfish_ with someone I’d known for less than two weeks.”

“I’d better make sure you know me for a bit longer, then,” Castle provoked. “I mean, we’d make beautiful babies. Your looks and my brains, or my looks and your brains” –

“I don’t want _babies_!”

“But you do want to know me for longer,” Castle pointed out. “You haven’t denied that at all.”

Beckett emitted a stooping-falcon’s screech on missing her prey – and failed conspicuously to utter anything that might be a contradiction. Of course, that might have been because she was too angry to speak. Castle preferred to believe that it was because she did want to know him for longer. He prowled over to the counter, and turned her round to face him.

“And I still want a kiss,” he purred. “Can’t I have one?”

“You don’t deserve coffee, let alone a kiss.”

“But _you_ deserve a kiss, don’t you?”

“If I get a kiss, then obviously you get a kiss. I can’t kiss myself. And you don’t deserve a kiss.”

“But you’ll give me one.”

“Why should I?”

“Because you want a kiss, and you’re flirting with me most disgracefully. Making me think you don’t like me and then peeping up under those amazingly long lashes in a thoroughly provoking fashion. It’s really not fair, you know.” Her eyebrows elevated. “I can’t afford to get it wrong. If I kiss you and you don’t want it, you’ll probably arrest me, though I do think that the handcuffs would be really hot…” He trailed off at her look of utter disbelief.

“You’re crazy.”

“Nope, just persuasive.”

“Do I look persuaded?”

“Your face doesn’t, but your hands obviously are.”

“Huh?”

“Well, they’re currently clasped behind my back. I’d say, my dear detective, that that’s a hug. And possibly also a hint. Would you like me to take it?” She looked up, and nibbled her lip uncertainly. “Up to you,” he pointed out. “I don’t like steel handcuffs. They hurt.”

She stared at him – and then smiled. “Better not use them, then.” He blinked. “Stop talking and kiss me.”

He wasn’t going to refuse that invitation. He bent slightly, and gently pressed his lips to hers, teasing, playing, and flirting with the lush mouth and full lips against his, opening to the delicate trace of his tongue along the seam, inviting him into her very private playground. He’d intended to be slow, letting the heat build slowly, but the instant she gave him entrance might as well have been the instant she threw gasoline over them and lit the match. He couldn’t slow down, couldn’t stop, and she didn’t seem able to either, devouring his mouth and fighting back; hands up under his shirt, clawing into the hard planes of his back; frantic with something he didn’t understand but couldn’t stop reacting to; harder, faster, taking as she took, hands everywhere, clothes falling about them; hurrying her to the bedroom and then dropping her on the bed where she pulled him down over her and then rolled him to be over him, sheathed him and rose over him to crash down in one desperate movement. He lifted to her, equally hard and fast and desperate, deeper and further until she gasped and shattered as he touched her core and he exploded too.

She slipped off to one side, and he caught her before she could go further. He felt the need to hold on to her, as if she might disappear. She made a quiet little noise, and relaxed into his embrace, rolling over to pillow her head on his chest and embrace him in her turn. She didn’t say anything, but he could feel her body easing down, softening and curling into him; her breathing slowing. He stroked her shoulder gently, and stayed quiet himself, not wanting to break the spell. 

After a few moments she became limp, and her breathing had evened to the slow inhale, exhale of sleep. Castle, a night-owl, slipped out of bed, cleaned up and then, discreetly, showered, having to borrow a cherry bodywash which didn’t suit his masculine preferences at all. That all done, he put his boxers back on and wandered out of Beckett’s bedroom, pulling the door to, in order to find the rest of his attire. He clicked the light on, winced before his pupils adjusted, and then set about finding his clothes.

He found his socks readily enough – he’d taken them off and dropped them on the spot – but his pants had wound up behind the couch, and his shirt was under the table, snuggling with Beckett’s bra. As he extricated them, something knocked the table leg. Insatiable curiosity had him finding – oh. He knew this book. This was Beckett’s diary, and he’d –

No. He shouldn’t read it again. He should not.

But he already knew that he would.

He sat down on the couch, and flipped past his own writing to the few new entries. It didn’t take him long to read them. He laid the diary closed on the small coffee table, and pondered. He could tell her who that other writer had been, any time. He just didn’t want to, because he was pretty sure that if she knew it had been he, she’d be at the other end of the state in about half a second flat and he’d never meet her ever again. She’d probably emigrate to Antarctica to avoid meeting him.

He wanted to write something, anything, underneath her words, but that wasn’t so much stupid as suicidal. A detective as good as she – and she must be brilliant to have made detective so quickly – would deduce in seconds that the only possible author was he, and his lifespan with Beckett – and possibly his lifespan full stop – would be measured in milliseconds.

He sat back, still thinking hard. Her words certainly explained her bitter, biting comment that had kicked off their argument. The situation – stepping back, letting her father drown, was still so very new and raw – four days, at most, and _he_ still had a sore spot years after – no wonder she’d snapped. It would be almost the only thing on her mind, and he was pretty sure that while she’d like her work to subsume her personal issues, Roy wading in had definitely _not_ helped there.

Now, there was a thought. Roy. Mm. Yes. A little chat with Roy. But for now, he realised, he’d better go home. It was after nine, and he couldn’t abuse the babysitter’s good nature, albeit he paid her very well indeed. He padded back into the bedroom, where Beckett was curled into a tight ball around a pillow and, he initially thought, fast asleep.

As he approached, her eyes opened, still drowsy. “Cas-sle?” she queried.

“I have to get home.”

“Oh. Okay. Night,” she yawned. 

“Before I go…” He’d reached the bed, and sat down next to her; pulled her up against him and held her close; kissed her deeply. “That’s how you say goodnight. Till tomorrow.”

“G’night.”

***

Despite her bone-grinding exhaustion, Beckett didn’t fall asleep again right away. She nuzzled into the pillow, still faintly smelling of Castle, and cringed at the memory of her hard words and Castle’s response. Whey she’d let him – why he’d bothered trying – to cajole her out of her viciously black mood escaped her. Why it had worked was a far harder puzzle. And yet he’d simply – forgiven her, as her dad had not – could not; told her to lean on him; and then kissed her in a way which removed all thought and anything but blazingly primitive lust. And then they’d ended up in bed, again, which simply was not her style. She didn’t go in for falling into bed, or one – two – night stands, or anything unplanned and spontaneous, certainly not when she wasn’t even sure that he’d got to _boyfriend_ stage let alone lover.

And yet already she’d found that she’d missed him when he didn’t show up; she’d taken comfort from his undominating strength; she’d managed to forget about her father in the heat of his body.

Oh. That…might not be healthy. Sex wasn’t a substitute for willpower and owning your actions. On the other hand, it was an excellent distraction, especially the way Castle did it. Too, he wasn’t going to be all and everything to her. She had her new friend, Lanie, as well. She needed to get a life.

Maybe if she had some life she wouldn’t have so much time in which to feel guilty about her dad.

No. She wouldn’t think like that. _Yes,_ she felt guilty about her father. _No_ , she shouldn’t. She wasn’t responsible for it, or for him. She was _not_. And it was about damn time she started to believe that. She was – had been lauded for it, had relied on it, had run her parents ragged because of it – strong-willed, stubborn as a rock – and she should be using all that strong will to turn her life around. Her father would sink or swim on his own, but she wasn’t going to drown because of him.

She. Was. Not.

And that decision made, she showered, prepared for bed, and fell asleep as quickly as she would have wished.

***

Early on Wednesday, they closed the case. No one single, brilliant breakthrough, just a combination of everyone’s diligent work and analysis. Beckett supposed that it was just as much a solve as anything else, but somehow it was more mundane. Everyone was satisfied, however, and instead of the normal dispersal to various food trucks and sandwich bars, there was a celebratory team lunch involving enormous quantities of pizza and doughnuts.

Afterwards, there was only paperwork, and as new girl on the detective ladder, Beckett received considerably more than her fair share. She’d rather expected that. That occupied her entire afternoon, and at shift end her eyes hurt and she _really_ understood why detectives cursed paperwork up hill, down dale, and all the way to the District Attorney’s office. 

“Hey,” came bouncing up behind her.

She turned around, and found, unsurprisingly, Castle. “What’re you doing?”

“Paperwork.” She scowled at her desk. “I don’t like paperwork.”

“So your face says. Is there a lot of it?”

“A whole afternoon’s worth. My eyes are bleeding.”

Castle took the opportunity to sit down beside her desk and stare soulfully into her eyes, which Beckett didn’t appreciate.

“They’re not, you know. Not a hint of blood. Still their same gorgeous selves.”

Beckett made a throwing-up noise. “That’s pathetic. That line’s older than the dinosaurs and nearly as effective.”

“They ruled the earth for millions of years,” Castle countered, “so I’d say they were pretty effective. In which case, my line is effective, and you should come to dinner with me.”

“I thought this was about finding out how the NYPD would investigate so you could adapt it for Storm?” Castle’s dropped jaw was amusing. “Did you have an ulterior motive?” she teased, but something flashed through his face, and suddenly it wasn’t a joke any more. “Did you?”

“Not until I met you,” he flirted. “Then I certainly developed one, and I don’t think I hid it.” He smiled wolfishly. “You’re an excellent producer of ulterior motives. Today’s ulterior motive is to get you to come out for dinner with me, to somewhere that isn’t Remy’s.”

“Shouldn’t you be having dinner with your daughter?”

“She likes the babysitter better.” Beckett raised her eyebrows. “She’ll play hairdressing, nail varnishing, and make up all evening, and watch High School Musical over and over.”

“And you won’t?”

“Five o’clock shadow is apparently a major disadvantage for all those things, and her lipsticks don’t suit me. I look great in a tutu and tiara, though.”

Beckett gaped at him. “You – you – played dress up with your daughter?”

“Yep,” Castle said happily. “Who else should?”

Somehow Beckett found herself with her coat on, moving to the elevator, in Castle’s large company, completely blindsided by the image of Castle playing dress-up with a small girl. Her brain was bending right round out of shape at the pictures. Castle? A large, muscular, thoroughly masculine man in a tiara and tutu playing with nail varnish and make-up?

The sheer astonishment of the idea kept Beckett lost in her head until Castle said happily, “Here we are.”

“Huh?” She looked up, at an unassuming door which Castle promptly held open for her.

“In you go.”

“What is it?”

“French.”

She baulked. French? High end food and menus in a language that she didn’t speak well? He hadn’t brought her to a dress-up-or-be-turned-away restaurant with snooty, disapproving waiters?

Castle wrapped an arm around her and moved her forward, into the bistro.

She blinked, and stopped again, this time with sheer surprise. It wasn’t…

It just wasn’t like Castle at all. Okay, so he appeared to enjoy Remy’s, but he was a minor-league celebrity bidding for the A-list, used to smart bars and expensive restaurants and – she’d said it to him – glitz and glamour. He could, and reputedly did, splash the cash.

So how on earth did he know a small, unpretentious bistro with chequered tablecloths and candles in wine bottles; a solitary flower on the table rather than a tasteful arrangement; a menu on a blackboard in scrawly handwriting; old fashioned chairs; and waiters with a cloth in their back pocket and an old-style cash-and-corkscrew holding apron over their black pants and shirts? Just – how?

“Sit down,” he urged. “I know it looks pretty casual but the food’s wonderful – French country cooking with wine to match.”

She made a noise which came out as _glurp_ , and allowed him to usher her inside to be seated at a table for two in a quiet corner, by a maitre d’ who greeted Castle as an old friend.

“I mean, I could’ve taken you to somewhere like Jean-Georges or Balthazar or Nobu but then you’d have had to get dressed up and anyway they’re really showy and I didn’t think you’d want that and I don’t even know if you like sushi or really rich food and Balthazar’s really crowded and we couldn’t chat without being overheard and” –

“Stop.” 

Castle finally took a breath.

“I don’t want to go somewhere flashy. I just thought you would.”

“Only if I have to be a celebrity.”

“You don’t like that?”

“Oh, it has its compensations,” he grinned. “Sure, I like the attention and the praise and all that, but not all the time, and never when Alexis is around. She’s too small for all that stuff. But it’s fun and I enjoy it. Besides,” he added, “it proves I’ve made it.”

“You needed proof?” Beckett asked, surprised. “I thought you’d get sales data and so on – doesn’t that prove it?”

Castle squirmed in his seat, coloured, and said nothing whatsoever. Beckett waited, and waited, and waited.

“Would you like a drink to begin with?” the waiter asked. 

Castle grabbed the wine list and buried his scarlet face in it. “Red or white?” he queried. Beckett scanned the menu and came to a fast decision. “Red, please.”

Castle ordered a good bottle of red, and the waiter departed.

“You haven’t answered,” Beckett noted. “Why do you need proof?” Rather unworthily, she felt that since Castle knew a lot more about her inner thoughts than she did about his, this was a chance to catch up.

“What would you like to eat?” he deflected.

“Paté de campagne and then coq au vin,” she said briskly. Castle, who had evidently expected her to take considerable time to choose, looked both disappointed and hunted; and then relieved as the waiter arrived with the bottle of red wine and he could waste time in tasting it, pronouncing it delicious, and encouraging Beckett to drink.

As she sipped, her eyes widened. “This is really good,” she exclaimed. “What is it?” She spun the bottle around, and read down. “Pauillac?”

“Bordeaux.”

“It’s lovely.” She raised her gaze. “Why do you need proof?”

“This isn’t fair,” Castle complained. “You’re being a detective at me.”

“Yep.” She produced an intimidating stare. “So confess, Mr Castle.”

Castle squirmed some more, and ummmed, and errrrrred, and squirmed and wriggled in his chair, very much like a small boy caught while putting a large frog in his teacher’s desk.

“Recognition,” he eventually forced out.

“Sales data. Why’d you need to be a big celebrity if your sales are sky high – they are, aren’t they?”

“Yes! I’m a best seller. I sell millions of books every year.”

“So that’s your recognition – why’d you need more?” The more he evaded, the more she knew there was something odd behind it, which she was determined to discover.

He winced. “I guess you told me about your mom and dad’s problems, so it’s only fair, but…this isn’t public, okay?”

“Do I look like I’ll go running to Page Six?” she snipped. “I got enough of the gutter press when Mom got stabbed.”

Castle cringed, looking like he felt the sting of mistaken assumptions just as painfully as Beckett had the other day. “Sorry,” he apologised, considerably more gracefully than Beckett had managed. “Anyway. Well. Um.” Beckett’s intimidation level rose. “Yeah. So, anyway, there was this girl, at college. Kyra. We dated for nearly three years. She went off to Europe and I never heard from her again. Said she needed space.” Beckett waited. Castle’s lips twisted unhappily. “Her parents said I’d never amount to anything. Hated me, made it clear I’d never be good enough, never be a success. So I vowed I’d prove them wrong. I was going to be Famous with a capital F. And I will be. Sales aren’t enough. I’m going to have my face on Page Six and that’ll _prove_ I hit the big time and the Blaines can _choke_ on it.”


	11. Chapter 11

Beckett stared at him. That last statement had been vicious, and completely unlike Castle had been at any other time – which, admittedly, had only been ten days. Somehow, it felt much longer. She pushed that thought away as irrelevant and wrong. 

“They really got to you,” she said. His usually cheerful face was bitter and pinched, his eyes hard in a way she hadn’t seen, even when she’d pressed his sore spot. “They really did. So how long…” She did some mental math. “You were twenty-two, at most?”

“Yeah. Less than a year out of college when she left. She never came back.”

“So now you’re proving she missed out?”

“No. I’m proving them and everyone else who didn’t believe in me _wrong_. I’m not carrying a torch for her. That was years ago and I’ve been married since. She’s the past. I’m going to have the future I knew I would.”

He stopped, shocked, drained his glass, refilled it and drained it again.

“I’ve never said that to _anyone_ ,” he gasped. “No-one. How… you hypnotised me! You used strange witchy powers that you’ve been concealing from everyone because secretly you’re a superhero and that’s why you’re a detective because you can hypnotise the suspects into confessing” –

“No. You just wanted to talk.”

“No, no. I never talk about that. Never never never ever. Never.”

“I think I got it,” she said dryly, “but you did talk about it. You want to be a star because then nobody can say you aren’t a huge success.”

“Yeah.”

“So your driving motivation is to prove everyone who ever doubted you was totally wrong.”

“Yeah.”

“Bit like Storm, really.”

“Yeah – wait, what? No no no. I’m not Storm. He’s not me. Definitely not.”

“Wish fulfilment? He’s amazingly successful and always gets the girl too.”

Castle seized on the opportunity to change the subject. “I got the girl,” he oozed. “I got you.” Beckett rolled her eyes at him, and he smirked. “I did.”

“Or I got you,” she said demurely.

“That’s okay by me.” His hand stole across the table and found hers, his thumb stroking lightly over it. “Now, shall we order?”

It was quite clear that he didn’t want to return to the earlier conversation, and the instant appearance of the waiter put paid to any attempt. By the time their orders were given, Castle had moved the conversation firmly on to the excellence of the food, the speed of the cooking, and the wonders of France, where Beckett had never been.

“I spent a semester in Kiev,” she said, rather defensively.

Castle squeaked in surprise. “You did? You went to Russia?”

“Ukraine,” she corrected. “Yes.”

“Can you speak Russian?”

“Yes – I did a minor in Russian, and Ukrainian isn’t so different that I couldn’t get by after a bit.”

“Wow.” His eyes shone with admiration. “That’s amazing. Say something in Russian.”

Beckett obliged, and watched with some interest as admiration rapidly changed to outright heat. The hand that had been over hers tightened. “Wow,” he breathed again. “That is so _hot_. Why didn’t you tell me you could speak Russian?”

“Never thought of it.” And half the reason she hadn’t thought of it was that the very next semester she’d had to transfer to NYU because her father wasn’t safe to be left alone. He still wasn’t, she thought bitterly, but it wasn’t her problem any more.

“You okay?” Castle asked.

“Fine.” She looked around the restaurant. “Is that our dinner arriving?”

“Yep.” 

Beckett fell upon her paté as if she hadn’t eaten for a week. It tasted _wonderful_ , and the sourdough bread with it was just as good. The wine, naturally, suited it precisely. Evidently Castle could choose a wine, although why that should surprise her, she had no idea. It fitted him perfectly. She sipped the wine as Castle finished up his soup, and hoped that her entrée would be just as good.

It was better. 

“How did you find this place?” she asked Castle, who was attending to a plateful of boeuf bourguignon with concentration and a blissful expression that Beckett strongly suspected was mirrored on her own face.

“I stumbled over it one day with Alexis and we got lunch here. It was so good I came back for dinner, and whenever I want something comforting and excellent I come here. They pretend they don’t know who I am, and I don’t have to pretend to be a celebrity.” He slammed his mouth shut again, and slugged his wine. “How do you _do_ that? I never say that either!” He stared at her, and then at his plate, and then at her again. “You’re making me tell all my deepest secrets. Stop it! You’ll know everything about me and then you won’t be interested in me any more.”

“Who said I was interested now?” she teased lightly, but a flash of something – _hurt?_ – crossed his face. “Joke. I wouldn’t have come out if I wasn’t.” She put her hand over his, and stroked gently. His palm turned up to meet hers, and he twined their fingers.

“Still, it’s not fair. You’re pulling out all my secrets and I don’t know any of yours.”

“You know about my dad. That’s the only secret I’ve got, and he isn’t much of a secret.”

“No secrets? You can’t have no secrets.”

“Does that mean you won’t be interested in me any more?”

“No!” he rushed out. “Of course not – you’re _mean_! Quoting me at me.”

Beckett snickered. “You’re really easy, Castle.”

He smiled slowly. “I could be easy, if that’s what you like. Or I could be tougher.” She tugged a little at his grip, suddenly firmer, and found her hand caught. “If you liked,” he said suavely. She felt heat gather at her core. “But first, dessert. Their crème brulee is to die for.”

“They had a chocolate mousse,” Beckett suggested.

“You have one, I’ll have the other, and we could share.”

“Share? Share _chocolate_?”

Castle’s eyes grew large and pleading. “Just a little taste.”

“Oh, okay,” she sighed. “You can have a little taste.”

“Can I have a little taste of something else?”

“What?”

Castle wiggled his eyebrows. Beckett decided that she would _not_ blush. 

“You’re blushing,” he noted. “Why, whatever are you thinking?” She refused to answer. “My, my. What a naughty mind you must have. I meant could I have a small taste of your coq au vin. We can discuss other tastes later.” His grin widened and acquired a distinctly wicked edge.

Beckett glared, but provided a small piece of her entrée. Castle swapped it for an equally miniscule piece of his, and, honour satisfied on both plates, ceased to tease.

“Yours is delicious too,” he said, and the excellence of the food squashed any further conversation.

At the first taste of her dessert, Beckett practically whimpered with delight. It had to be the best chocolate mousse she’d ever eaten, and right now, she bitterly regretted that she’d agreed to allow Castle even a small morsel. However, she had agreed. She extended a small amount, and received in return a smidgeon of crème brulee, which – in common with the mousse – was outstandingly good. She gazed dispiritedly at her empty bowl, on which not a speck of chocolate could now be found. It was, she reflected, a great shame that there had not been more.

While she had been grieving over the lack of further chocolate mousse, Castle had ordered coffee, which took some of the disappointment away. When he calmly possessed himself of her hand once more, however, she raised an eyebrow.

“That’s my hand,” she pointed out.

“Yes, and this is mine, holding it.” He smiled. “One hand to drink your coffee, one hand for me.”

Beckett suddenly smiled evilly. “You want me to give you my hand? Why, Mr Castle. This is quite unexpected. I really don’t know what to say to your proposal.” She timed her last two words to coincide with Castle drinking his coffee, whereupon he choked on the mouthful and spent the next three minutes coughing and spluttering, trying to recover his breath and any semblance of composure, while Beckett utterly failed to restrain her mirth.

“You…you…you – you’ll _pay_ for that, you…you…you…” He failed to find an appropriate epithet. “It would serve you right if I took you at your word and did propose.”

“You wouldn’t,” Beckett said. “Surely you’re not that impulsive?”

There was an interesting silence.

“Should that have been – surely you’re _no longer_ that impulsive?” she asked.

“Probably,” Castle admitted. “Now will you _stop_ dragging uncomfortable truths out of me? It’s not nice and it’s not fair, especially if you don’t have any.”

“I haven’t dragged anything,” Beckett said, not entirely truthfully. “You talked without needing any dragging of any sort. You’d be hopeless as a criminal. One hard stare and you’d spill your guts.”

“I prefer kisses to hard stares,” Castle said, entirely irrelevantly and in hope of diverting the whole discussion.

“I’m sure criminals would too, but we don’t offer kisses in Interrogation.” She laughed. “I can just see the detectives’ faces if you suggested it. You’d be locked up in Holding for sheer annoying-ness in half a second.”

“As long as it was you wielding the handcuffs. I wouldn’t like it if it were anyone else.”

“Oh, it would be. It would be two big, bulky officers. Nothing nice about that at all.”

“But you’d come and visit me, wouldn’t you?”

“Nope. I don’t consort with criminals in Holding.”

Castle pouted. “You don’t?”

“Nope. I help put them there. And the food’s awful, too.”

“No haute cuisine?”

“No. Not like here.” She smiled. “That was delicious. Thanks.” She reached for her wallet.

“Put that away,” Castle chided. “I invited you, and I’m paying.”

“You can’t pay every time,” she argued. “It’s got to be my turn.”

“Nope,” he said happily. “You admitted I’m a best seller, so I’m going to take advantage of it. I wouldn’t notice if I took you out to Balthazar every night for ten years, so just sit there like a good detective while I settle the check.”

Beckett growled.

“No growling. It’s not kind. Even if your bark is much worse than your bite.”

“What?”

“Well, you snip and snark at me, but really you’re all soft and cuddly underneath.”

“I am not soft and cuddly!”

“Oh, I think that you are. Not very soft, but definitely cuddly. Can I cuddle you now?”

“What?”

“I’ve paid, and it’s time to go, so I could walk you home.”

“That’s not what you said.”

“Oh, what did I say?”

“You asked if you could cuddle me?”

“Did I?” Castle replied innocently. “I don’t remember. Anyway, shall we depart?”

“I guess,” Beckett muttered, considerable suspicion lacing her tones.

They were barely out of the door before Castle wrapped his arm around her waist and drew her close in.

“What are you doing?”

“Cuddling. Don’t you like it?” he said plaintively. “I like it, and you seemed to like it, so I thought I’d cuddle you some more. Unless you’re too full of dinner to like being cuddled because it’ll trigger indigestion and tummy-aches and then you’ll be ill and unhappy and won’t want cuddles at all and” –

“Do you articulate _every_ thought you have?”

“Certainly not in public,” he began. “I’ve got plenty of thoughts that I don’t let past my lips where others might hear them.”

“Really?” she said, as they got into a taxi. “It seems to me that you spill every last thought out of your mouth. You never stop talking.”

Castle’s wicked expression told Beckett, far too late, that she’d given him an opening as wide as the Grand Canyon for destroying her composure.

“No, no. For example,” he murmured, leaning into her so that his words couldn’t be heard a foot away, “I would never say in public how much I like kissing you.” He paused. “I wouldn’t mention how gorgeous you are when I peeled off your shirt and found that matching, navy-blue underwear – and I certainly wouldn’t say in public that you’d be even sexier in silk – or how amazing your legs are when you wrapped them around me; or how perfectly your breasts fit into my hands; or the sexy noises you make when you’re in bed…”

“Shut up!” She was scarlet.

“But if I shut up I couldn’t tell you – and I can’t say it in public – just how much I want to take you to bed right now.” His voice had dropped into a bedroom growl which seeped through Beckett’s skin without bothering her ears, pooling in her centre and slithering through her synapses. “So do you want me to shut up?”

“We’re here,” Beckett said without answering his question.

“Do you want me to come up?” Castle put a hand on her knee; his fingers stretching slightly to dawdle a little way up her thigh. 

His touch rendered her entirely unable to think past _touch me again_ , for an instant. Then she slowly ran her gaze from his face to his lap, acquired a feline smile, and said, “Looks like you already have.”

Castle smiled suavely. “You have a good effect on me.” His fingers stretched a little further. “The question is, do I have an equally good effect on you?” 

Despite her efforts to suppress it, her breathing had turned heavier.

“I really think I do,” he purred. “Why don’t we go have a good effect on each other?”

She gave in to her own desire. “Okay,” she breathed out. 

He took her mouth in the elevator the instant the doors had closed, conquering. By the end of the short ride, she was plastered against him, as close as she could be. She fumbled for her keys, unlocked the door, and found herself on its other side, pressed against it, and wholly conscious of just how aroused Castle was – as much as she, and far more obviously.

It was as hopelessly explosive as the first time. His lips hit hers and his tongue invaded again, demanding and possessive, desperately seeking to conquer and own her mouth; his wide frame pressed her back against the door and held her captive; his hand in her hair, hers locked around his neck as she tried to take back the prize, finding herself caught under strength that hadn’t been as apparent only the day before. She conceded, allowing him to take the lead, falling into the flood-tide of sheer raw _want_ that he induced in her – and she in him.

She scrabbled to open his button-down, unbuckle his belt, flick open the button of his pants and pull down the zipper; his hands whipped off her silky t-shirt and opened her pants, shoving them from her slim hips; she kicked them away and pushed his down to join hers. His mouth moved from hers to find a nerve in her neck which made her squirm, her hand forced itself between them to palm over him and suddenly her bra was gone and his mouth was on her breast and she couldn’t help the noises she made. He was iron-hard under her fingers – but, abruptly, she remembered the need for protection.

“Bedroom,” she gasped. “Protection.”

Castle simply swung her up and attained the bedroom in seconds flat, dropping Beckett on to the bed, from where she located her recently purchased box of condoms, stripped his boxers and covered him without gentleness or hesitation. He didn’t disappoint. Her cotton panties flew heaven-knew-where, he swept firm fingers through soaked folds and then took her with one swift, strong stroke, setting a hard, fast rhythm that left her gasping and moaning to match his groans and then a shudderingly hard release.

He collapsed atop her, then rolled over and took her with him. Beckett, drained, simply stayed sprawled over his chest, trying to recover breath and brain. She wouldn’t have had much chance to move anyway, since Castle’s arm was clamped around her and not showing any signs of slacking off. Even with his eyes shut, he was firmly possessive. She wriggled slightly, pillowed her head on his chest, and fell into a doze, hypnotised by the slowing beat of his heart under her ear.

Castle lay, perfectly happy and totally exhausted, with his arm firmly around Beckett. Third time was the charm, he thought, and this was definitely the third time. Well, the third night. He just wished he could tell her about the diary, but he couldn’t – yet – think of a way to do it that wouldn’t get him killed. He snuggled her in, and contemplated his next move. Next moves weren’t far from his brain, in much the same way that naked Beckett wasn’t far from his spent body –

Oh. Not nearly as spent as he’d expected. In fact, very ready to go again. Maybe slower, this time, with rather more attention to details. Sure, fast, hot and hard had its place, but he felt in the mood for a little more seduction. He ran a gentle hand down Beckett’s spine, noting with a touch of concern the sharp vertebrae, and slipped it over her slim rear. She sighed, and curved into his touch. He turned them both, so that she lay on her back, still sleepy and cute, tousled and ruffled and sexy, and tucked an arm beneath her neck.

He leaned down to kiss her, holding her gaze, giving her plenty of time to anticipate his move; she nibbled at her lip and it was just so unbearably sexy that he fell on it then and there, soothing the tiny bite with his own mouth, and then delving deeper, searching and surely finding her response, sleepiness turning sultry. His free hand roamed over her breasts, playing and teasing: the pert pink nipples tightening under the tantalising touches and stroking.

“Like that?” he murmured. “I do.” Her hand slid under his waist, and she found his ass. “I like that too, but I wanna play. Lemme play with you.”

“Play how?”

“Any way you like. Just tell me if it’s not comfy or you don’t wanna.”

“’Kay,” she husked, and then looked full at him with sharp intelligence lighting her eyes. “Proving you’re good in bed too? You don’t have to prove anything.”

“The only thing I wanna prove is that I can turn you into a melted mess,” he growled, and kissed her again before she could read his psyche any more. 

“Go right ahead,” she suggested, when he lifted away.

“Sure. Just lie back and enjoy it.”

He began at her mouth, but he didn’t stay there for long, sliding southwards and lavishing care and attention on both small mounds, palming, rolling and then suckling until her breathing became soft gasps with occasional whimpers of sheer need. “You like that,” he decided, “but you’ll like this more,” and he slid further down, kissing the soft skin of her stomach, drawing a warm wet circle around her navel. Her hands clutched at his hair, and she tried to arch against him, prevented by his head on her abdomen. “Shall I?” he asked, and she didn’t pretend not to know what he meant.

“Yes,” she pleaded. “Do it.”


	12. Chapter 12

Consent secured, Castle wriggled downward, leaving a hot trail of kisses behind him, opened Beckett’s truly magnificent legs a little wider to accommodate his shoulders, and settled comfortably. Mischievously, he exhaled, riffling the messy curls and making her wriggle and squeak.

“Stop tickling,” she growled, which was a thoroughly useful piece of information for some time – that wasn’t now. He couldn’t say that he didn’t think about whiffling again, but decided that the one drawback of the magnificent legs was that they could probably snap his neck or crush his skull if he tried. Just in case, he laid his hands on her thighs, where he could probably prevent life-threatening damage, and where his fingers were, um, poised for action, so to speak.

And then he leaned forward, and began his second-favourite pastime in bed. His first slow, lascivious lick brought a whimper from her, and a squirm that left him holding her down so that he could repeat it. The next time, she outright moaned. Castle grinned ferally into the hot cleft, and applied himself to ensuring that within the next three minutes she wouldn’t be able to remember her own name – but she’d certainly know his.

He was slow and sensual, giving full value to each stroke, adding a wicked little flick at each end, penetrating a little deeper each time, winding her higher and tighter as he took her with mouth and lips and tongue and a tiny scrape of teeth as she began to make more noise, resolving into his name but little more, desperately twisting under his talented touch and then losing words entirely as he drove her up and over; slithering up beside her to hold her close.

She turned into him, nestling close, an arm across him, utterly relaxed and quiet, all the tension of daytime drained away. He decided that he _loved_ her snuggly and loved-up, peaceful and serene.

“You’re gorgeous,” he murmured. “I really like you all relaxed and happy like this.”

“I like me like this,” she sighed, but he didn’t think she’d meant to say it aloud, and sure enough, she didn’t say anything further, simply lay against his shoulder, quiet and still.

“Penny for your thoughts,” he said idly.

“Haven’t got any.”

“I drove all the thoughts out of your head? I must be good.”

She punched at his shoulder, but there was no force behind it. “Are you always so arrogant?”

“Only when I’ve got you in bed and shouting my name.”

She punched him again, a little more forcefully. “Ass,” she said, but there was a little more affection than annoyance in the word.

“Yep, but I’m a smart ass.” The separation between the words was pronounced.

“Oh?”

“Smart enough to make you happy.”

“I wasn’t aware you were using your _brain_ a few minutes ago.”

“Natural talent.” He grinned. “And the best partner _ever_.”

He only realised that that might have been a bit premature when she raised her head and stared at him. “What?”

“Best partner ever,” he said again, doubling up. “Look, I _like_ you. And you obviously like me, so…let’s date. Properly. Dinners and movies and making out in the back row. Going for walks. Making out in the woods. Going to Coney Island and” –

“Making out on the roller-coasters?”

“Yeah.”

“However did I guess?” she drawled.

“You wanna make out, that’s how.” He pulled her up and over him. “We could start now.”

“Who says I wanna make out?”

“Me,” Castle said very ungrammatically. “You’re nibbling your lip in a highly provocative fashion. If you didn’t want to make out you wouldn’t be nibbling and provoking me.” Beckett raised an eyebrow at him, which might have been more effective if she hadn’t been naked. He grinned more widely. “Consider me provoked,” he rasped, and pounced on her, rolling her under him and taking her mouth in one fast movement. She opened lips and body to him, he found protection by touch and clumsily donned it, and then not clumsily at all wound her up all over again until she took him in and they lost themselves in each other again.

“So we’re dating,” Castle said, happily satisfied, into Beckett’s ear.

“We are?”

“Oh, yes. I think it would be really unkind of you not to date me now that you’ve inveigled me into bed with you three times using your devastating charm and other attributes.”

“Other attributes?” she asked, a little edge on the words.

“Yep. Brains, wit, charm – and magnificent legs.” She thumped him. “Ow! That’s not nice. You’re not allowed to punch me if we’re dating.”

“Who says we’re dating?”

“Me. And you, because you like me and you like this and if you won’t date me we won’t be doing this any more.”

“Is that an ultimatum?”

“Nope, but if you won’t date me then my poor heart will be broken and I’ll never dare show my face near the precinct or you ever again. I’d be too upset.” She made a disgusted noise. “I wouldn’t. To be so cruelly rejected by a beautiful woman – I’d be devastated.”

“You are so full of it.”

“Yep. Is it working yet?”

“Will you stop it if I say we’re dating?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. We’re dating.”

Castle looked at her. “Now uncross your fingers, bring your hands out where I can see them, and say it again.”

Beckett stuck her tongue out at him, very childishly. “That’s not fair,” she sulked.

“You were cheating. That’s not fair either.” He grinned down at her. “I can stay right here for the whole night if I want to.”

“Why me?” she asked the ceiling. “Why do I get the crazy one?”

“Because sex with crazy people is unbelievable and I’m adorable as well.”

“You forgot to mention that your ego has its own truck.”

“No, but I didn’t think you needed to be reminded of that,” he smirked. “You’re not interested in being a celebrity’s girlfriend.”

“I’m not arm candy.”

“Nope,” Castle said, disarmingly sincerely. “You’re not. Even if you look like a model you’re not into that, are you? Or you’d have been a model. Or a movie star. Or something like that.”

“Not my scene.”

“Phew. So now will you admit we’re dating?”

“You’re persistent.”

“It’s one of my virtues.”

“You have more than one virtue?”

“Oh, I have lots. I have to balance out all the vices, you see.”

“I’d noticed the vices,” Beckett said, and wiggled at the touch of one particular implement of vice. “You seem to practice them a lot.”

“Is that an invitation to practice some more? Because I am totally up for that.”

“I’d noticed that, too.” Her smile was sultry, inviting, and wicked. Castle didn’t hesitate before accepting the open invitation.

***

Some considerable time later, Castle had left, and Beckett, tired, sated and thoroughly satisfied, flopped back on her pillows, showered, tidied and in soft sleepwear. It occurred to her that she hadn’t needed to write out her pain in her diary for a couple of days – exactly coincident with spending most of the evening with Castle, in fact – but, much more worryingly, that she hadn’t heard anything about or from her father. She might have decided to let him drown on his own, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t have liked rather more information.

In the morning, she decided, she’d run a check. That was all. Just a check, to make sure she knew what was going on. As soon as she’d made her decision, her head emptied and she dropped into sleep.

***

Castle woke, and immediately wished that Beckett were there with him. By the time he’d shaved, washed, etc; he’d changed his mind, largely because he wanted to have a word or several with Roy Montgomery, and he definitely didn’t want Beckett anywhere near that conversation. He forced himself to write until a semi-civilised hour, and then called.

“Montgomery.”

“Roy, it’s Rick Castle.”

“Rick? What – why are you calling?” A door shut at Roy’s end. “Is something up with Beckett? I thought you were seeing her and she was improving?”

“I wanna see you about that,” Castle said, not above scaring Roy a little, since he’d upset Beckett. “Have you got time for a drink tonight?”

“Yeah, sure. Unless there’s something I need to see about right away?”

Faced with the direct question, Castle couldn’t lie. “No.”

“’Kay then. Six, at yours, same as last time.”

“Later.”

In his office, Montgomery regarded the phone with some suspicion, and then peered out of the office window to see if he could spot any significant signs of his newest detective being under more stress. It didn’t look like it, and – until he had spoken to Rick – he wasn’t inclined to inquire.

At six, Castle opened the door to Roy, who was neatly on time, and ushered him through to the study, where the good whiskey was already on the table. Roy’s eyes lit up.

“You really want to talk,” he grinned.

“Yeah. I want to stop you screwing up your Detective Beckett before you manage to get it really wrong.”

Roy stared at Castle, then scowled. “What the hell d’you mean?” He paused. “And how do you know anyway? How close to her have you _got_ in two weeks?” His scowl dissolved and re-formed into a knowing smirk. “You dirty dog,” he drawled. “I didn’t expect you to manage to pull that trick.”

“It’s not a _trick_ ,” Castle growled. “I didn’t set out to seduce her as some sort of a _ploy_ to keep her from jumping off a bridge. I didn’t expect” – he stopped. “But maybe you did? Setting up as a part-time pimp, Roy?”

Roy’s face turned an enraged shade of dark purple – and then calmed. “Okay. You didn’t, I didn’t.” He took a gulp of whiskey. “But like I said last time, I hoped that you’d at least be a distraction.” Another gulp. “Just don’t distract her too much.”

“Distract her? Haven’t you seen the way she works?”

“Yeah.” Roy sighed, and sipped. “Now, what do you mean I’m screwing her up?”

“You hauled her in and quizzed her about her father.”

“Yes. I need to know about anything that would upset any of my team.”

“Beckett cut her father loose,” Castle said baldly. 

Roy swore vituperatively and for some time, punctuated with sips of whiskey. Finally, he stopped swearing. “Why the _fuck_ didn’t you tell me?”

“Why should I tell you? That’s up to Beckett. But you interrogating her about her dad is only going to salt her wounds, so _don’t do it_.”

“He was arrested last night. Again.”

Castle gaped.

“He didn’t ask them to call anyone. I wondered why not, since he’s hollered for her non-stop every other time. Turns out he was too drunk to speak.”

“You know this how?”

“Because every so often I check up and make sure that no-one’s putting the hard word on Beckett about her dad. If anyone’s going to do that, it’ll be me. And _so far_ I haven’t seen any reason to.”

“You have no reason to. Ever,” Castle grated.

“Nope,” Roy said mildly. “I don’t. But I do have a reason to make sure she’s okay. She was killing herself down in those archives, searching for the man who killed her mother. Every time her dad got picked up, she spent another night there. I tracked it. And then I told her to stop, or she’d be benched.” His eyes were haunted. “Tell me what else I could’ve done, Rick, because I was all out of ideas.” He paused. “And then you showed up with that damn diary. So sure I used you, and it, so sue me. It’s working, and God knows nothing else has.”

Castle sipped his own drink, and regarded Roy. “Desperate times, desperate measures?” His gaze pierced his friend. “Why so desperate?”

“She’s going to be a great detective. She’s already good, she just needs training and time. She could be the best I ever saw. I don’t want to lose that down some rabbit hole, and that’s where she was going.”

“Her dad was arrested again, and you haven’t told her?”

“I’m sure not going to now. If she’s cut him off, then I’m not giving her any reason to take him back.”

“He’ll drown her along with him, if she doesn’t step away,” Castle agreed. “But you have to back off quizzing her, Roy. You really do, because it really, really upset her.”

“I’ll let it ride,” Roy said, “but if it’s getting troublesome, then I’m not making any promises.”

“Okay. How about another drink?”

“Sounds good.”

After Roy had left, well plied with Castle’s good whiskey, Castle himself began to think about how best to tell Beckett the truth about her diary’s loss and return. The whiskey didn’t help with that, but he absolutely couldn’t keep it hidden from her. It felt…dishonest, and he didn’t like that feeling at all. Even so early in the relationship – so early that it could barely be called a relationship at all, though they _were_ dating (he cheered internally) – he didn’t like keeping secrets from her.

Besides which, if she got even the least hint that there _was_ a secret, she’d drill it out of him in half a second flat. She’d forced out – well, she hadn’t done much forcing, though she’d used silence like a weapon. He’d _wanted_ to tell her all of it, under that anticipatory silence, and he’d hardly taken any persuasion to keep spilling his past. She’d listened: created a waiting, expectant space where he couldn’t, eventually, help but fill it with words. His past, his history. His _motivations_. He never talked about them: too private to share, too unpleasant for him to want to remember. And yet he’d spilled it all out over dinner and the evening, as if they’d known each other for far longer than the few days they had.

She’d been open about her questions…and he’d openly told her the answers. But he knew all about her because he’d – unwittingly – read her diary, and then, knowing it was hers, wrote in it. And – she was acting on his words, though she didn’t know they were his, because she’d stepped back from her father.

He had to tell her. He’d thought, a mere few days ago, that he couldn’t tell her, because she’d run to the depths of the Sahara before she spoke to him again. But now…his conscience wouldn’t leave him alone: nagging him to confess before she discovered the truth by malign accident.

***

When Castle showed up at shift end, Beckett wasn’t there. Nor, he noticed, were three other cops who he’d noticed were generally in Beckett’s vicinity. He gazed around, somewhat confused.

“New case,” someone informed him. “They won’t be back for hours.”

“Thanks,” Castle said automatically, since he wasn’t thankful at all. He found pen and paper and scribbled Beckett a short note, inviting her to contact him when she was done. Having decided to make a clean breast of affairs, he wanted to – well, _get it over with_ , and know the worst at once. He had, however, resolved that he should tell her in person. It seemed…least worst. There was no _best_ option here.

He wandered dismally home, and waited, surrounded by a gloomy cloud and sure that his budding relationship would be cold and dead by the following morning. As the evening passed, and once the comfort of Alexis’s presence had gone to bed, his dark mood deepened as the hours travelled without a call or text.

Eventually, he went to bed, and tossed and turned in vague nightmares. In the small hours, he woke again, and roundly told himself off for being quite ridiculously worried and even more ridiculously unhappy at the prospect of losing Beckett without even a chance to date properly. His return to slumber was not rapid, despite the complete good sense of telling himself off. Even the prospect of buying himself a new tech toy, should he need it to relieve any minor misery, didn’t seem to help, and yet he’d had his eye on a remote controlled helicopter for weeks for which this would be the perfect excuse.

He woke later than he would have liked on Saturday, small noises of Alexis coming through the study finally piercing his sloth. He heaved himself into life, and, washed and robed, found his phone on the desk as he yawned his way to the kitchen to make pancakes and bacon for breakfast as a weekend treat, and casually glanced down at it.

A text had been sent – from Beckett – at _when?_ Two a.m.? _New case. No time to talk. KB._ As if he wouldn’t know who it was. But – she’d answered. Up to her eyes in work, but she’d taken a moment to answer him. His heart lifted and his chest warmed. She’d taken time from her all-encompassing work to contact him. She – she _cared_. Just a little bit, maybe, but it was something to build on.

Then he remembered _why_ he’d wanted her to contact him, and his heart dropped. He forced himself to eat breakfast, and then texted back _whenever you’ve time. Let me know. RC._

He occupied himself all day, firmly concentrating on his home and Alexis every time his thoughts tried to wander Beckett-ward, though he couldn’t stop himself wondering how she had insinuated herself so totally into his brain, so fast. He told himself again it was utterly ridiculous, and went back to domestic life.

Late into the evening his phone chirped. _Still manic. KB_. A knot in his chest dissolved. She was keeping in touch; reassuring him she wasn’t simply pulling away without a word.

And so it went on, for almost a week. He contented himself with return texts, explaining that he wouldn’t distract her from a hot case, but asking her to tell him as soon as he could come back. He _wanted_ to go to the precinct and be there, because somewhere in the back of his mind an idea for a new book and a new character was coalescing into something that might soon be inspiration, but her rookie-detective status made him hesitant, in a way he’d never been before. If he hadn’t known from her diary just how much she relied on her work, and how desperate she’d been when she thought that she’d been black-marked, he’d have been there every minute that he could, but he _did_ know, and he couldn’t screw it up for her. Still, deep in the pit of his stomach, the constant dread that it was all going to be over as soon as they talked never quite left him, and he was less childishly frivolous than usual.


	13. Chapter 13

On Friday morning, Castle’s phone chirped. _We got the guy. Finishing at lunch time. Come round this evening? KB._

So. Crunch time. He didn’t – couldn’t – reply immediately: paralysed with fear of the outcome, and completely without a plan, or words, to explain. Eventually he wrote back _Sure, 7-ish? RC_ , and received only a smile in return. He arranged for a babysitter, and then made Alexis’s favourite dinner by way of apology for the short notice absence.

Exactly on seven, he knocked on Beckett’s door. When she opened it, he took swift cognisance of her dark-ringed eyes and pallid skin, and wished he could ignore his conscience. Still, he hugged her as soon as the door had shut, and tucked her tired form against him, and simply cuddled. Now that he was in front of her, he, for all his words and best-sellers, had no idea where to start.

“Uh…we need to talk,” he mumbled into her hair. She stiffened horribly in his arms, and he realised how that could be taken. “Not like that. Well, um, _I_ don’t want to talk like that – but, um, er… Look, can we sit down?”

She tried to move, but Castle simply held on until she linked her hands behind his back and walked them both to the couch. 

“Okay, what is it? If this isn’t Dear Kate, it’s not you, it’s me…what’s going on?” Under the firm tone, he heard a worrying flicker of insecurity. “It’s not about Dad, is it?”

“No.”

She sighed, which might have been relief but sounded more like tired resignation. “What is it, then? It’s been a rough week and I’m tired.”

“I” – he’d nearly said _I can fix that, snuggle in and be cuddled._ Then he remembered. “I have to tell you something. Please don’t shoot me till I’m finished?”

“I left my gun at the precinct.” She pulled a little away. “Spill.”

“Uh…” Her eyebrow lifted, and he quailed. “You know you lost your diary? And then Remy’s found it again?”

“Yes?” Suspicion began to flow into her face.

“Well, um… it was me. I mean, I didn’t know it was your diary when I found it but I did and then I took it home and… well” –

“You read it.” Her words were dead.

“Before I knew you. And I – I couldn’t bear it that someone was in that much pain and it sounded like you were planning to die and I couldn’t let that happen so I asked Roy to help me find the owner and he said yes” –

“Roy?”

“Uh, Montgomery?”

“You did _what_?”

“I didn’t know it was _you_. I only knew it was a cop. I couldn’t let them – _you_ – die!”

She pulled further away. “But Montgomery would know. He would know right away.”

“He didn’t tell me it was you. He told me you’d help me find the owner.”

“And when did” – she stopped. “Was it _you_ who wrote in it?” Her face was white, but then it coloured livid scarlet. He nodded. “When did you work it out?” she asked, white again, slumped – cringing, he thought.

“The day after I met you. When we went to Remy’s and they asked you about your diary and then I knew…”

“So you arranged for it to be found.” He nodded again. She hadn’t shot him yet, which had to be good –

“When did you write in it?”

 _Oh, crap_. The one question he’d really hoped she wouldn’t ask. “That night.”

“After you knew it was mine.”

His eyes dropped in shame. “Yes. But I couldn’t let you go on thinking like that. It – you _wanted to die_ and it wasn’t _right_.” 

She stood up and began to pace, keeping her head turned from him, silent. He half stood, and then dropped back down. After only a moment, he couldn’t bear it. “Beckett?”

“Don’t talk to me.”

He shut up. But, he noticed, she hadn’t – _yet_ – told him to go. She kept pacing, the metronome of her steps measuring out the seconds.

Finally her pacing ceased, and she halted, staring out of the window, back to him, rigid-spined, stiff-shouldered, tense. “So you knew. Right from the start, you knew. So what was this? A pity fuck? Stop the poor little cop jumping off the bridge?”

“No! No,” he said, more temperately. “And anyway, _you_ kissed _me_ the first time. Not the other way around. You couldn’t resist me.” He hoped to lighten the mood. It didn’t work.

“Because you flirted and made sure that I _thought_ you were attracted.”

“I was! I _am_. I don’t offer to date every pretty woman I meet. I want _you_.”

“You want me or you want to fix me?” she jabbed, still not turning around.

“I don’t need to fix you because you’ve already fixed yourself!” Castle yelled.

She spun around. “What?”

“You don’t need to be fixed by anyone and even if you did need fixed no-one else can do it for you but you, but you did it already so just _stop_ _and think_ before you start insulting me again.”

“I didn’t!”

“You did _so_!” Castle went on the (not entirely – or at all – sincere) attack. “You accused me of making you a pity fuck and of only wanting you because you were broken.” She opened and closed her mouth, finding no words. “You’re making me out to be some sort of bottom-feeder picking up women who are ripe for abuse and making them think I’m in love like some Regency rake and then dropping them as soon as I’m bored.”

“I didn’t” –

“You didn’t? Then what did you mean?”

Castle was having a little quiet fun with his imprecations, being now sure that Beckett wouldn’t kill him and dispose, untraceably, of the body.

“You read my private diary!”

“Before I knew it was yours,” he said patiently. “If I’d known it was yours then I wouldn’t have read it.” Except he had read it again, but…that didn’t matter now.

Beckett turned back to staring out of the window. Castle came up behind her, and wrapped his arms around her.

“But you wrote in it,” she said, shame and embarrassment in her voice, trying to shrink into herself and away from his touch.

“You were hurting. You still are hurting but you’re doing something about it. I’m not.” He waited, but she said nothing. “You decided that it was time to change – to let your dad sink or swim on his own. _You_ decided you weren’t going to drown any more. That wasn’t me.”

“Was it all a lie?”

“Huh? Was what a lie?”

“What you wrote about seeing it – what you said?”

“No,” he said heavily, looking back into the past. “No. I saw it all. Some people couldn’t or wouldn’t resist, some people never came out of the booze or the drugs. I learned I couldn’t save them. And it hurt.” Truth rang through his tones. “But I couldn’t do it for them. It – they only ever got through if they wanted to. I couldn’t make them want it. You can’t make him want it. He has to want to change himself.”

She stood, utterly silent, perfectly still, and then suddenly turned within his arms and buried her face in his shoulder, shuddering, still silent. He thought she might be sobbing, but there was no sound. He stroked her back, and simply held her.

“I wanted him to change for _me_ ,” she sniffled. “I wanted him to remember that I’m still here even if Mom isn’t. But he wouldn’t… I thought maybe if I found the killer he’d sober up but I couldn’t do that either and then Montgomery put a stop to me looking and now you’ve shown him just how messed up I am and he’ll never trust me.”

“He knew about your father anyway.”

A shocked noise arrived below his chin. “He _what_?”

“He knew about your father anyway,” Castle repeated. “I think he must have got a report sometime. Anyway, he knew, and he kept an eye on it – he _said_ it was so nobody pushed you about it.” Beckett made a very peculiar gleeping noise. Although she was still damp around the eyes, she now looked as if someone had sideswiped her with a two by four.

“Ohmygod,” she whimpered. “Ohmygod. I am so screwed if he knows about Dad.”

“He’s known for some time, and he hasn’t fired you.”

“He has?” The screech on the second word had a good try at bursting Castle’s eardrum. “Ohmygod.”

“He hasn’t fired you.” Maybe repetition would pierce the panic? He tugged gently and managed to steer Beckett back to the couch, where he sat them both down and put an arm around her shoulders.

“How can I face him when I know he _knows_? I never wanted anyone to know.”

“What your dad does isn’t on you.”

“Yeah, right. _Everything_ your family does is on you as a cop.”

“That’s total _crap_ ,” Castle snapped. “Maybe if it were your kids, but no-one on God’s green earth expects you to be responsible for your _parents_. They – _he_ ’s responsible for himself. If Roy thought you were responsible for your dad, he’d carpet you and tell you all about it. He hasn’t, because you aren’t.”

She shivered. “You mean it?”

“I do,” he said confidently. She buried her face in his shoulder again, and didn’t make a sound or movement. Castle tucked her in more comfortably, and petted soothingly, dropping a small kiss on her dark head, and when that wasn’t rejected, adding a few more. Presently, he discovered that she lay heavy and lax, lashes down, breathing soft, though there were hints of tears on her pallid cheeks. He checked his watch, and found it to be only half past eight.

He thought for a moment, then put two and two together with her late night texts and comment that she was tired, and concluded that in Beckett-speak, _tired_ actually meant _totally exhausted_. Add an emotional wringing-out, and she’d understandably collapsed into sleep. He leaned in, and nuzzled into her hair for a short time, then pulled very carefully at a stray lock until her eyes fluttered part-way open.

“You need to sleep,” he murmured. “I have to go home. Go to bed, and I’ll see you tomorrow at shift end.”

“Why?” she yawned.

“Because we’re dating,” Castle said happily, “and I’m going to take you back to the bistro for dinner.”

She stared at him. “Dinner?”

“A meal eaten either in the middle or at the end of the day depending on where you grew up. In this case, at the end of the day.”

“But…”

“We agreed,” Castle said brightly. “I agreed to date you, so I get to take you for dinner.”

“But…”

“Stop _but-ing_ at me. We’re dating. I said so. Unless _you_ want to quit?”

“No, but…”

“No buts. You’re not a ram or a goat. Dinner tomorrow. Now be a good detective and get some sleep.”

Castle bounced out of the door before Beckett could fully register his words, and try to kill him, and smiled happily to himself all the way home.

***

Beckett dragged herself through washing and fell into bed, too shattered to think. She was asleep before her lashes fell to her cheeks, and didn’t wake until her alarm beeped the next morning.

The morning contained only appallingly tedious paperwork, though at least there was none of the frantic feeling that she had to do more, better, faster, _find something right now_. Unfortunately, that left her with considerable headspace to cringe at the thought of Montgomery knowing about her father, and her diary, and her desperately unhappy thoughts. She did her best to remain totally invisible, and succeeded.

At shift-end, a happy, noisy bustle indicated that Castle had, much to her surprise, appeared. Whatever he’d said, she’d found it difficult to believe that he really had meant that they were going to date.

“Hey,” he grinned. “You look a lot better now you don’t look like a panda. Though a panda would be a lovely cuddly thing” –

“They’re bigger and heavier than you, they eat constantly and they have nasty tempers when provoked. Oh – and they only seem to want sex once every five years or so. I don’t think they’d suit you,” Beckett pointed out.

Castle pouted. “But they look so cute!”

She rolled her eyes. She’d thought, as he bounced in, that this would be awkward, but the back-and-forth about _pandas_ , of all the dumbass things, had overridden that.

“I’m sure you can go see them at the Zoo,” she snipped. “They might even let you back out again.”

He pouted some more. Beckett thought, but with amazing resolution didn’t say, that his pout was also cute. Inappropriate for a grown man, but very cute. Also very kissable, which she was absolutely not going to do in the precinct or anywhere in public.

“Anyway, pandas are protected. Buy yourself a stuffed one.”

Castle’s eyes sparkled wickedly. “I don’t need to buy a stuffed comfort object,” he smiled, and then dropped his voice. “I’ve got you if I want that.”

Beckett blushed. “You…you…” she managed, which felt entirely inadequate to the depths of her irritation.

“Dinner time,” he smirked. “I’m hungry. I need to eat regularly.” His tones were innocent. The lick of his lips was devilish. 

“Give me a minute to finish this.”

“Okay.” He planted himself in a chair by her desk, and watched with enthusiastic interest as she completed the form.

“They’re not that interesting.” His eyebrows lifted. “The forms. Far too many of them.”

“Do you have to do them?”

“Yep. New detective on the team. Paperwork ends up with me.”

“Oh. That’s not very glamorous.”

“Nope. But this isn’t a TV show, and it’s not all guns and glamour.”

“Are you finished yet?” he asked plaintively.

“Just a few more minutes.”

Castle fidgeted and fussed and generally distracted, until Beckett threatened to dismember him if he didn’t just _shut up_ and let her get on with it. “And the more you annoy me the longer this’ll take and then I won’t be coming out for dinner with you, I’ll be going home to bed. Alone,” she added at the quirk of his lips.

“That’s no fun,” he grumbled, but he mimed zipping his lips and stayed quiet until she finally gave a soft noise of satisfaction and stretched.

“Done.”

“Great! Let’s go. C’mon, get your coat.” He was practically teetering on his toes, restraining himself from tugging with some difficulty. “C’mon.”

“Give me a chance,” Beckett complained. “I need to tidy everything up.” Castle flumped back down into the chair, humphing. “Detectives need to be precise. Being tidy is part of that.”

“I guess,” he drooped, “but I’m hungry and I want to have a good dinner.”

“So do I, but I have to do this properly. No room for artistic licence here.” She raised her eyebrows at him in a disapproving fashion. He waggled his theatrically in return.

“Now I’m ready,” she said a few moments later.

“Finally! Let’s go.” He grabbed her hand and tugged her to the elevator.

Some few moments later, they arrived at the bistro, and Castle ushered her in.

“Back so soon, Rick? And with the same lady?”

Castle scowled at the maitre d’. “Yes, Charles. Don’t pretend I come here with dozens of different women.”

“If you had, my profits would be far larger,” Charles lamented. Castle choked. Beckett giggled, suddenly looking five years younger. Castle frankly stared at her. He didn’t think he’d seen her _happy_ before. It drew an answering, open smile from him.

Charles coughed. “Would you like to sit down, or are you going to stay standing staring into each other’s eyes for a few more minutes?”

They startled. “Uh, yeah,” Castle said. Beckett blushed delicately. Charles escorted them to a table, drawing out Beckett’s chair for her – but it was Castle who seated her, with a tiny stroke across her shoulders as he did. She gave him soft eyes. Charles left the menus and wine list on the table, water appeared without them noticing, and when he returned, they hadn’t touched the menus, most likely because their hands were holding each other. He coughed gently, again.

“Rick, would you like some wine?”

“Uh?”

“Wine?”

“Uh, yes. Beckett, what would you like? What are you going to have to eat?”

She dropped her gaze to the unopened menu. “I think I need a minute,” she said. “Is that okay?”

“Sure,” Castle said, simultaneously with Charles’s _of course_.

“We should choose,” she noted, and opened the nearest menu. Shortly, she closed it again, with a blissfully anticipatory smile on her face. Castle took barely longer.

“What are you having?” he asked.

“Mushroom vol-au-vents and then lamb.”

“Red, then.” Castle perused the wine list and quickly chose. Charles returned to take the orders, and swiftly removed himself. He never interfered in his guests’ romances, and this one was clearly intense. He sighed happily. Romance was good for business. It also made him happy to see people happy, but Gallic practicality prevailed. Romantic dinners were hugely profitable: the lovers invariably ordered without regard for cost, and drank endless cups of coffee while staring into each other’s eyes. So far, Rick and his lady – but _Beckett_ was a most peculiar name: surely that couldn’t be her first name? – were thoroughly absorbed in each other.

Beckett was simply enjoying her wine – Castle chose excellent wines – and Castle’s warm hand engulfing hers. She turned her fingers up, and linked them into his. He knew it all, and hadn’t recoiled. More, he’d (she supposed) supported her decision to leave her father to it. He certainly hadn’t tried to tell her to keep helping him. It was heartening not to feel judged or condemned; it was soothing to be petted and cuddled and reassured; and of course the sex was spectacularly good. Not that the last was the determining factor, but it sure didn’t hurt to have a man who knew what to do.

Castle was enjoying both the wine and Beckett’s slim hand twined into his. He’d thought she’d run from him: she wasn’t, he already knew, a woman who bared her soul, or who wanted to have it bared. But he’d seen into her, and, horrified as she had been, she hadn’t thrown him out or driven him away. She hadn’t even demanded time. Instead, she was here, with him, on a proper date; at the end of which he would take her home, very properly, and…then see where that took him. She was so deliciously pettable, when she wasn’t stressed to the max (once a week, for five whole minutes, that would be), and it was so nice to have a _partner_ in bed, not someone who was either performing or, worse, overtly judging his performance.


	14. Chapter 14

He was still happily holding her hand when their starters arrived, and, unhappily, had to let go. It seemed deeply unfair that her small noises of delight were directed at the food and not at him, but she was _happy_ , and that made up for a lot.

She was still happy as they drank their post-meal coffee and finished the last of the wine; comforted by a meal in which the banter had been light and teasing; the food wonderful; and the atmosphere friendly…or something of that ilk. They’d been in contact, mostly hands, but occasionally knees, throughout the whole meal, and the warmth between them had been turning to heat with every moment. Conversation was starting to lapse, replaced by the rhythmic, repetitive stroking of thumb over hand; long episodes of falling into each other’s eyes; a constant nibble on her lip from Beckett; a knowing half-smile from Castle.

She barely noticed that he settled the check, though he was sure that normally she’d have protested, and snuggled into the crook of his arm to walk out as naturally as if she’d been doing it for years, rather than – oh. Less than three weeks since they met. How could he feel as if he’d known her for ever, when he barely knew her at all? And yet…he’d seen into her soul through her diary, and she’d moved him to reveal secrets he’d never mentioned to anyone. Of course, the scorching physical connection didn’t hurt either, and he was wholly conscious of her slim body tucked into his, the light touch of her arm around his waist, her cheek so near to his that if he only turned his head a fraction, he’d be able to kiss it.

With astounding self-control, he didn’t turn to kiss her _anywhere_ , but that was only because he didn’t think that, once he started to kiss her, he’d want to – or be able to – stop. Far better to wait until they were in the privacy of one or other home – oh. Better ask, and maybe, maybe, she’d come to his loft tonight, so that she needn’t leave if she didn’t want to. He hoped she wouldn’t want to. 

“Come home with me?” he asked. 

Her head flicked around to meet his gaze. “Your apartment? But” –

“But?”

“What about your daughter?” she rushed out, colouring and uncomfortable. “Won’t she… won’t it upset her?”

“No,” Castle said automatically. “Why should it?”

“Is she used to you bringing strangers home?” She hadn’t said _strange women_ , for which Castle was grateful.

“No, but if I ever do bring someone into the loft she knows it’s a friend.” There was a short silence.

“Are we friends?”

“I really hope so.” He smiled. “It’s much better to be friends when you’re dating, as well as” – he coughed – “everything else.”

“That what the cool kids call it?”

“We _are_ in public,” Castle riposted. “When we aren’t, I’ll be more explicit.”

Beckett did her best not to blush, and failed. Castle smiled sweetly, and said nothing, very audibly. 

“Now, will you come to the loft? Pleeeeaassssssseeeee?” he dragged out, looking as adorably puppyish as he could manage.

“Okay,” Beckett said doubtfully. “If you’re sure your daughter won’t mind.” She couldn’t imagine how badly she herself might have reacted to her father bringing a woman who was not her mother home.

“Her mother walked out when she was just a baby.” Castle followed her thoughts. “She floats in about once or twice a year, so it’s not like they have a conventional relationship. And my mother’s trying to be a star in LA, so she’s not around either.”

“Uh, okay then,” Beckett said. 

Castle hugged her. “You don’t need to worry. If I thought you’d upset Alexis I wouldn’t have invited you, so it’s all good. If you argue any more, I’ll think you don’t like me and then I’ll be all sad and broken-hearted.”

“You are so full of it,” Beckett snarked. “Yes, okay, I’ll come to your loft. But if it upsets anyone I’ll go.”

“That would upset me, though. So you’ll have to stay half-in and half out. You’ll be Schrodinger’s detective, and I won’t know if you’re there or not there at any point.”

“What? Oh, no. You do not get to use quantum philosophy to get me to stay if I don’t want to.”

Castle grinned. “And here we are,” he said happily, “and you’re not fussing any more. Perfect.”

“I do not _fuss_ ,” Beckett growled.

“Worry, then.”

Beckett growled much more awfully, but Castle merely cuddled her in and grinned at the doorman as he did. They were past the man before he could speak, although his mouth was opening, the words were lost as the elevator doors shut.

“I’ll just need to pay the babysitter,” Castle said, “and make sure Alexis is okay, and then we can be comfy.” 

He opened the door, gestured Beckett forward – and only then realised that there was utter chaos within.

“What on earth?” he began.

“Oh, Mr Castle, I’m so sorry but she says she’s your mother and I didn’t know what to do and Alexis thought it was her grandmother but I wasn’t sure and so I let her stay till you got home and” –

“Mother?”

“Darling! Tell this young woman” – she gestured theatrically at the babysitter – “who I am!”

If Castle hadn’t had an arm around Beckett, she’d have been halfway to New Jersey before he’d blinked.

“Mother, I thought you were in LA? Why are you here?”

“Well, darling, that’s a long story. Can it wait till you’ve dealt with this young woman” – suddenly she spotted Beckett, trying to hide behind Castle – “and who is _this_ lovely young thing?” She smiled beautifully. “But darling, I do need to talk to you. Alone.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll go,” Beckett said.

“No!” Castle said.

“Daddy, why is Grams here?” A small redhead tumbled down the stairs and stopped at Castle, hugging him. “Daddy, did you know she was coming to visit? Did you? Was it a surprise for me?” She stopped. “You didn’t know, did you?” She looked up. “Uh, Daddy, who is this?”

“This is Detective Beckett, pumpkin. You remember: the one who’s helping me with investigative techniques for Storm.”

“Oh, yes,” the redhead chirped. “Hi. I hope Daddy bought you dinner.”

“He did,” Beckett said.

“Good.” And that appeared to be that. “Grams, why are you here?”

“I’ve come for a visit.”

Beckett, from her half hidden position behind Castle, regarded his mother. It was patently clear to Beckett that Castle hadn’t expected her, and more, that after the immediate surprise, he was exceedingly worried. He was doing a good job of hiding the worry from his daughter, but the tension in his broad shoulders told even a new detective the tale. Something was badly wrong. His mother – another redhead, in an eye-bleedingly bright kaftan and with make-up good enough for a night at the Ritz – was also tense, and looking around, there was no apparent baggage in the main room. Beckett’s attention returned to the older woman, who, on close inspection, had tension lines around her eyes, and was just a fraction thinner than would be totally healthy.

She tapped Castle. “Look,” she murmured, “something’s clearly wrong with your mother, and she really needs to talk to you privately. Why don’t I go home, and we can take a raincheck on tonight.” She slid further behind him. “You’re not going to have any fun when you’re worried,” she pointed out, in a sultry tone. “So leave it for tonight, fix it, and then I’ll see you tomorrow.” She had a thought. It wasn’t a very nice thought, but it might cheer Castle up a little. “If your mother’s staying, you’ll have on-tap babysitting.”

“I guess,” he drooped. “Yeah. You’re right. Look, I’ll call you when I’m done. I’ll see you tomorrow after shift?”

“It’s Sunday, and I’m off. Call me.” She slid away, and Castle finally closed his door.

“So, Mother, why are you here?”

“Darling…” 

He suddenly realised that she was acting to the top of her bent, and, more pertinently, that Alexis was still there, listening with interest.

“Alexis, it’s past your bedtime. Upstairs, now. I’ll be up in a moment, Rina, thanks again.” He rapidly paid her, adding a generous bonus. “That’s for the fifteenth rewatch of High School Musical.”

“No problem, Mr Castle.”

Rina slipped away too.

“Sit down, Mother, while I say goodnight to Alexis, and then we’ll talk undisturbed.”

A few moments later, Castle returned, surveyed his mother with increasing alarm, and opened a bottle of wine. He thought that she might need it. That thought was confirmed a moment later when she slugged back half of the large glassful in one go, and chased it with the second half.

“So what’s happened?”

His mother set her glass down, and met his eyes.

“That sonofabitch bastard yellowbellied _swine_ cleaned out all of my accounts, my apartment was repossessed because he forged my signature on a mortgage, and ran for the hills,” she spat out – and then dissolved into hysterical tears.

It took Castle hours to calm his mother, and only dozens of repetitions that of course she could stay with him; his home was her home for as long as she needed; Alexis would love having her around; and New York would appreciate her acting talents far more than LA ever had; brought her to a position where she was convinced to go to bed and to sleep. By the time Castle had installed her in one of the guest bedrooms (luckily, he had two good size ones and one tiny one) and gone back downstairs to finish his wine and go to bed, it was well into the small hours of Sunday morning. Even so, he sent a quick text to Beckett before he fell into sleep. _Mother in deep distress. See you tomorrow to explain. Will call. RC._

***

Beckett didn’t exactly wake early, having waited up till rather too late in hope that Castle would call. When he still hadn’t at midnight, she gave it up as a bad job, hoped that his mother wasn’t revealing something truly dreadful, and went to bed, switching her alarm off with considerable relish. She started slowly and gently, with excellent coffee, and was happily ignoring her chores in favour of more coffee when she remembered to look at her phone.

She stared at Castle’s text, which sounded deeply ominous, and wasn’t exactly clear. Would he visit, or would he simply call? If he visited, she had no food whatsoever in her apartment, and that meant that she had to do some shopping. If he merely called, she’d get takeout pizza and ice cream, and flop for the day.

Reluctantly, she dressed in something more appropriate for the grocery store than her robe, grabbed her purse and phone and then marched out to buy provisions and return forthwith.

Forthwith, thanks to irritating other shoppers who blocked her way, or couldn’t decide between two identical apples, or hadn’t got their wallets ready to pay at the checkout, turned out to be rather more than an hour; but her phone hadn’t rung or chirped with a text, and she’d made sure it was charged. Her mood, therefore, could best be described as _miffed_. She glared at Castle’s text again – and noticed that it had been sent at three a.m., which meant that Castle was, most likely, still asleep, with some considerable cause. She needn’t worry about hearing from him much before lunchtime, she thought, and took herself home, unconsciously much comforted.

She had barely made it through the door when her phone rang. “Beckett?”

“Hey, look, it’s me,” Castle’s familiar tones arrived. “I’m really sorry about last night, but Mother was distraught and I had to deal with her and it took forever” –

“Don’t worry. It’s not like I don’t know what that’s like. She needed you.”

“Thanks.” He sounded exhausted, still, but that was heartfelt. “Um…can I come round later? Alexis will be delighted to have time with her Grams, and…”

“Mm?”

“I need someone to talk to. Someone who doesn’t know Mother.”

“Sure,” Beckett said, panicking. What did she know about dealing with _normal_ crises? Sure, she was shit hot on how to get a drunk parent out of the tank, but that was about it. “When do you think you’ll come over?”

“Uh…can I come for dinner? I’ll bring wine. Mother and Alexis can have something nice and Alexis will feel grown-up” –

“Okay. Anything you hate?”

“Nope. Well, broccoli. But everyone with any taste hates broccoli so that’s okay.”

“No broccoli. Time?”

“A bit after six? Mother won’t wake till mid-afternoon now and I wanna spend time with Alexis.”

“Okay. See you later.”

“Till then.” He sounded a touch wistful as he rang off. Beckett put her thinking cap on. Since she now had all afternoon – it was barely eleven – she could go back to her book.

Or not. She could make Castle a really good dinner. He’d bought her dinner several times, and if he wouldn’t let her pay, she could balance the scales by good cookery. She looked at her groceries, and made a more extensive list of missing items, then dashed off to acquire them all.

Shortly after six, Castle arrived, ambled in, and sniffed. “What’s cooking?”

“Surprise,” Beckett said mischievously.

“Hope it goes with red wine, then.” Castle proffered a bottle of an excellent red which he’d picked up from his extensive collection after considerable thought.

“It will.” She smirked. 

Castle wandered towards the kitchen and the interestingly enticing smells, until Beckett turned him firmly back towards her couch.

“Should we open this now?” she asked.

“If we do,” Castle said, suddenly serious, “it might all be gone before dinner.”

“I’ve got some other red - American. It’s not likely to be anything like as good as yours, though.” She wasn’t going to be ashamed of that. He could afford top class French wine. She bought good – but not exceptional – Californian.

“Sounds great.”

Beckett opened her own bottle of wine, Castle opened his – to let it breathe, he said, though Beckett felt that it had more to do with steadying his hands – and they sat down on the couch with two full glasses.

“So what did you want to talk about?”

“Mother,” he said heavily, but stopped.

“It was pretty clear that something was wrong – she had no baggage, and she looked exhausted and a little too thin,” Beckett said, and at Castle’s astonished look added, “Detective, remember – even if I’m still a rookie detective.”

“Yeah. Well.” He recovered his thoughts, took a large gulp of wine, and started again. “Mother was in LA, trying to win parts – she’s an actress. Pretty successful on stage – she was nominated for a Tony,” he said with huge pride. “She met a man, and stayed on, and even though she wasn’t getting many parts, it was enough.”

“Mm?”

“The bastard scammed her – forged signatures, cleaned out her bank account, lost her apartment.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. So anyway, I said she could stay with me as long as she wanted to.”

Beckett put an arm around his broad shoulders. “Of course you did,” she said. “Just like you wrote in my diary to help me when you hardly even knew me, of course you’d help your mother.” She hugged him, one-armed. “So what did you want to talk about?”

“How I find this sonofabitch and make sure he’s in jail,” Castle growled. “Preferably without my mother knowing. She really thought she was in love with him, and she might have sudden merciful ideas – though I rather doubt it. Last night she ran through all the tortures of the Inquisition – I never knew she had researched it but she said she’d had a role so I guess it was part of her preparation – before drawing breath.”

“If you want to see him in jail, you’ll have to involve your mother,” Beckett pointed out. “She’s the only one who can give anyone any evidence. Unless she makes the complaint, the police are stymied.”

“If she did make a complaint, what evidence would be needed?”

Beckett looked sharply at Castle. “You’re going to pull all the evidence together without telling your mother, aren’t you? How do you think you’re going to do that?”

Castle winced at her swift perception. “I know a guy…a PI. It’s all legal,” he added quickly. “If you help me work out what we’d need for evidence, I can make sure Mother allows it. She just won’t know it’s to put him away. I’ll tell her it’s to try to get her money back.”

“Okay. But we’ll have to talk it through over dinner, because it’s ready.”

“How do you know? The oven didn’t beep, and you didn’t look at your watch.”

“See that pretty decoration on the wall? That’s called a clock, and it tells me the time without me looking at my watch,” she snipped.

“Ooohhhh, does it? Maybe I should get one,” Castle flicked back, and grinned. “What’s for dinner?”

“You’ll see.”

“That’s the most unfair answer ever,” he complained.

“Go sit at the table, and you’ll see.”

Castle went, humphing theatrically at the unfairness of _you’ll see_. Humphing was replaced by agape wordlessness as Beckett produced from her kitchen fresh bread and butter and a slightly spicy sweet potato soup. He dug in, silenced by the excellence of her cooking. On his brief acquaintance, he’d never have guessed that she would be a good cook.

“What’s in it? I know it’s sweet potato, but there’s something else that I can’t quite place.”

Beckett smirked evilly. “Spices,” she said, which told him nothing at all helpful.

“C’mon, that’s not fair. What spices?”

“Lots of different ones,” she said, equally unhelpful, and smirked again. “You’ll just have to wonder.”

“You’re mean,” Castle pouted. “How can I make it if you won’t tell me what’s in it?”

“You can cook?” Beckett exclaimed, unflatteringly astonished.

“How do you think I feed myself and Alexis? I could live on takeout and restaurants, but she can’t – certainly not as a baby or toddler.”

“I never thought of that. Maybe I’ll give you the recipe later.” She smiled seductively. “If you’re nice to me.”

“I can be very nice,” Castle oozed. “Very nice indeed.”

The soup finished – not a drop remained in Castle’s bowl – Beckett opened her oven and brought out a steaming roast of pork, smelling delightfully of rosemary and garlic and with – oh, _wow_ – crackling on the top, perfectly crackled. The joint was surrounded by roast potatoes, roasted in the pork’s own fat as it ran from the crackling, and she also brought out carrots and peas.

As she carved, Castle noticed something peculiar. “How come the crackling’s already separated?” he queried.

“I separate it before I cook them. Then I put the rosemary and garlic on the meat, and then put the crackling back on top. The crackling fat bastes the pork and roasts the potatoes. It gives them a slight flavour of rosemary and garlic, and with a sprinkle of salt” – she applied it to the potatoes – “they’re great.”

Castle politely waited until she had served them both, and then took a bite. His face dissolved into blissful appetite. “These are wonderful,” he enthused.


	15. Chapter 15

Beckett grinned. “Aren’t they just?”

“I have to try this.” He didn’t say a single other whole word until his plate was clear, though there were plenty of happy hums. “Is dessert just as good? Because I may need to roll back home, like a barrel, if it is.”

“You’ll see.”

“Stop _saying_ that. It’s not fair and you’re teasing me.”

“I’m sure you’ll survive,” she said tartly. 

Castle grumbled at his empty plate as he politely cleared the crockery and put it, as directed, on the counter.

“It’ll all go in the dishwasher,” Beckett advised, with a happy smile undoubtedly arising from _not_ having to do dishes. “Now, did someone mention dessert?”

Castle thought that Beckett would be an excellent dessert, but luckily didn’t actually say so out loud. She glared at him anyway, which was also totally unfair. She was _not_ allowed to read his mind. It would be bad for his continued good health.

Dessert consisted of an equally delicious apple and blackberry cobbler, with ice cream; and then – of course – there was excellent coffee. Replete, Castle rolled to the couch and extended his arm along its back so that Beckett could snuggle into him. Pleasingly, she did, though he was careful not to squeeze her, because her stomach must have been as full as his and he certainly didn’t want to be squeezed until he’d digested for a while.

“I think I’m hitting food coma,” he lamented, “though it was wonderful. You’re a really good cook.”

“Thanks,” Beckett murmured, loose-limbed and totally relaxed, and wiggled slightly to be completely comfortable. “About your mother,” she continued. “I’ve got an idea.”

“Mm?” hummed Castle, who also had ideas although they definitely did _not_ involve his mother.

“Just like you _said_ ” – her inflection conveyed utter, and justified, disbelief – “that you wanted to do research into finding people for Storm and got assigned to me” –

“And aren’t you glad of that right now?”

Beckett made a disapproving noise – “You could tell Captain Montgomery that you wanted to research something like what happened to your mother, and sit with a Robbery detective for a while to work out what evidence you needed.”

Castle sat bolt upright. “That’s brilliant!” he agreed. “That’s really smart. I’ll do that first thing tomorrow, and then you can introduce me to the Robbery guy.”

“Or girl.”

“Whichever. I don’t care. As long as you’ll still talk to me?”

“You won’t run off with some pretty Robbery detective instead?” Beckett teased.

“Nope.” Castle turned her into him. “Why would I want to do that when I’ve got a stunning Homicide detective right here?” He kissed her hard, making his desire for this particular detective – and _no_ other – blatantly clear. “I don’t want anyone else. I just want you.”

She blinked. “You’ve known me for three weeks. Isn’t that a bit…” she ran down. The thought of him flirting with some pretty Robbery detective produced a searing flash of jealousy. 

“You wouldn’t like it either,” Castle pointed out, following her thought with worrying accuracy. “And you’ve only known me for three weeks too.”

Beckett humphed.

“Anyway, why are we talking about hypothetical Robbery detectives who’ll probably turn out to be short, fat, ugly and male, when we could be doing something much nicer instead?”

“We could,” Beckett said in a sultry tone that brought Castle to full attention. “I think that’s a great idea.” He grinned wolfishly. “I really want another coffee.”

He growled at her, and caged her in. “You’re just messing with me. You don’t want coffee, you want more kisses.”

“Says who?”

“You’re nibbling your lip, provocatively. That means you want kisses.”

“No, it means I’m nibbling my lip.” She nibbled, and then peeped through her eyelashes and produced a miniscule, adorable pout.

“Now you really are provoking me. And provocation will get what it deserves.”

She giggled at him, which was even more provoking, so he took away the giggle by kissing her again, and then she opened for his avid mouth, and then his hands slipped under her shirt. She retaliated by unbuttoning his, spread it wide and wriggled against his bare chest just as he whipped her t-shirt over her head. The skin-to-skin contact was all it took. Castle’s kiss turned hard and possessive; Beckett’s hands became predatory, stalking his belt, then button, then zipper; seizing on their prey.

He didn’t think, simply surged to his feet, pulling her with him, stepping out of his pants as he went, picking her up and carrying her to her bed, placing her gently in its centre and sliding off her jeans with a long, slow, determined stroke. She smiled at him, reached up for his hand and tugged, to pull him down beside her. He didn’t tug, which was a touch disappointing, but then he sat on the bed, prosaically took his socks off, and then grinned.

“So pretty,” he drawled, “half-naked.”

“So charming,” she drawled back, “anyone would think you were a writer.”

He snorted with laughter and collapsed down beside her, inserting an arm under her neck – and then pulling on her shoulder so that she rolled into and above him. The clasp of her bra mysteriously opened, and fingers tip-tapped down her spine, and then smoothed themselves over her ass. She curved a fraction into the assured touch, and essayed a little assured touching of her own, cupping her fingers around his face, then lowering herself to kiss him; teasing along his lips; a flick of tongue seeking an entrance which he was happy to provide. Her panties slipped from her hips, and down the length of her legs: when he couldn’t reach any further she flexed at the knees and toed them all the way off.

As she took his mouth, he rolled them, settled comfortably, and began to lay a trail of kisses down her jaw. Jaw bled into neck, then sternum, and Beckett’s breathing evolved into panting as he reached her now bra-less breasts. He fondled for a while, playing sensuously, and then slithered down to play a different game. She liked that game, so much was clear from the way her hands knotted in his hair, and the noises of delight and then satisfied release that she emitted. 

He thought about doing it all over again, to produce more of those delightfully uncontrolled noises and movements and keep her sky high as long as he could, but she reached down for his hands and pulled him up beside her, cuddling in.

The mood was unpleasantly broken by Beckett’s phone ringing. She groaned and rolled over to grab it, so relaxed by Castle’s ministrations that she didn’t look at the screen. “Beckett.”

There was a short silence.

“No.”

Another short silence.

“I said _no_.”

She sat up straight, drawing on a cold carapace and shutting down her emotions entirely.

“You don’t have the authority to demand that, Sergeant. Nor does my Captain. That would be Captain Montgomery of the Twelfth Precinct. If _he_ ordered me to pick up my father, I still would not do so. You have no authority to give that order.” Despite only being a rookie detective, her tones would have stopped any Chief of Police in their tracks, and reduced them to terrified obedience. “This is not an NYPD matter. You are not entitled to order _anyone_ to collect a drunk adult and you are certainly not entitled to threaten me with disciplinary proceedings” – Castle gasped, but she didn’t hear it – “to try to get him out of your cells so you don’t have to clean them up.” She paused, but not for long. “I will be reporting this in the morning to Captain Montgomery. If you’re prepared to try that on one cop, what else are you trying?”

Frantic, terrified gabblings squawked from the phone. Beckett cut the call, and all her icy fury drained away. She fell back, and turned her face into the pillows. Castle put a gentle hand on her back, and with an extreme attack of good sense and tact, didn’t say a single word. He could feel the shudders running through her, and assumed that she was trying not to cry.

He sank into gloom. She’d just been coming out of her bleakness, and some officious sergeant had ruined it all. Lying back on the other side of the bed, he kept a hand on her spine, but expected that very shortly she’d tell him to go. Until that happened, however, he wasn’t moving. He’d told his mother that he’d be very late, so she wasn’t expecting him and – most importantly – wouldn’t go out. He had time, he thought, to be here and be supportive.

After a while, she turned over. Her eyes were dry: cold and hard in the way they had been when he first met her. She stared at him as if she’d forgotten he was there, as naked as she, in her rumpled bed.

And then she swore like a fishwife, sitting up, acid venom in every profane syllable, bitterness etching the air. Her cascade of invective eventually ran down, but instead of – as Castle expected – collapsing into tears, she breathed out and straightened up again. “That’ll be a fun interview in the morning,” she bit. “That sergeant’s going to find out that threats like that get you carpeted. Oh, yes,” she said with renewed venom. “Just what I always wanted. Reporting a superior officer for conduct unbecoming _and_ I get to ask Montgomery if you can go play with the Robbery division.”

“Conduct unbecoming?” Castle queried.

“Yeah.” She paused. “He knew I was a cop: a detective, even, and he tried to order me to collect Dad and threatened me with being written up if I didn’t. That’s not allowed. And if he’s threatening other cops, what’s he doing to people who can’t or won’t fight back? We don’t need that. Cops get a bad enough rap for doing the right things. We can’t have them playing power games and misusing the badge.” Fierce idealism and granite integrity backed every word.

“Won’t that get you in trouble?”

“Not with Montgomery. Some captains – yeah, sure. They’d rather not deal with the hassle – or they agree with it.” Contempt laced that comment. “Still, it won’t be a nice meeting.”

“Can I sit in?”

“You what now?”

“Can I sit in?” Castle repeated.

“Why?”

“Uh. Um.” She fixed him with a vicious glare. “Uh, well, um, you see, I think I’ve thought of a new character and she’s going to be great and she just fell right into my head right now when you were talking because that’s the sort of fire that readers will love and actually I need to go write _right now_ so have you got any paper and a pen?” He bounced out of the bed and started hunting around, realised a bedroom wasn’t normally equipped with pens and paper when there was a perfectly good desk in the main room, and disappeared before Beckett managed to close her mouth. 

“What the _fuck_?” she asked the empty air. More than a little piqued, she started to look about her for a robe – and then she realised what he’d said. “ _What the actual fuck_?” she screeched. He couldn’t. He absolutely could not base a character on her. Absolutely not at all _ever ever ever_. No way. No _way_. She grabbed her robe and sprinted out of the bedroom.

Castle, still as naked as a jaybird, was sitting at her desk scribbling as fast as he could.

“You can’t base a character on _me_!” Beckett yelled.

“Mm,” Castle said, not listening at all.

“Are you hearing me? You can’t base a character on me!”

“Okay,” Castle said.

“Thank God for that – why are you _still writing_ when you just agreed _not_ to base a character on me?”

“Yes, okay. Coffee would be great.”

Beckett suddenly realised that Castle was answering on complete autopilot without actually hearing a single word she was saying. She pulled his head round by the nearest convenient handle – his ear.

“Ow! What did you do that for? I have to get this down before it’s gone.” He detached her fingers from his ear and resumed scribbling. Beckett emitted a wordlessly furious screech which, although it resembled most closely the mating call of the F15 military jet, didn’t pierce Castle’s concentration in the slightest. She watched, infuriated and amazed in equal shares, until, a couple of moments later, he raised his head, shook it, and suddenly focused on her. 

“Oh. Um, sorry? I just had to write it all down or it wouldn’t be right.” He stood up, and then realised he was naked. “Uh, do you have a spare robe, or do I need to get dressed to stay warm?”

“Yes,” Beckett snipped.

“Yes which?”

“You need to get dressed.”

Her tone penetrated his post-writing haze. “You’re cross,” he said. “Why’re you cross? I mean, I know I dashed off to write, but I’d’ve come back in a moment or two, and you were still, um, recovering your composure so it wasn’t like I left you in the middle of, er, things.”

“Listen to me. I don’t want to be a character.”

Castle’s jaw dropped. “You _don’t_? _Everybody_ wants to be a best-selling character.”

“Not me.”

“But…look, I don’t even know yet if it’ll turn into a book. It’s just a character. There’s no plot or anything.” Her sceptical look didn’t diminish. “I have hundreds of them, all in a file. Only a handful ever get used.” Still no lessening. “I can show you them all.” There was a minute warming of the chilly aura. “C’mon, Beckett.” He took a pace towards her, and then shivered. Beckett’s irritation shattered into giggles as the cold left him limp and wobbling amusingly. “That’s not nice.”

“But…” she dissolved again, and made a gesture that left _nothing_ to Castle’s drooping imagination.

“You’re _mean_ ,” he wailed.

“You’re” – she paused, and stared at his much diminished assets – “shrinking.”

Castle harrumphed – and then acquired a thoughtful air and a wicked glint in his eye. He took a step towards her, and another, and another – and made a successful grab at her.

“You _rat!_ ” Beckett howled, as he made off with her rather inadequate robe swathed around his hips. She chased after him, and caught up with him just as he dropped the robe and dived under the bedcovers, tucking them firmly about his neck.

Beckett went headlong after him – and only discovered the next stage of Castle’s nefarious plan when she found herself hauled up against him, and further found that he wasn’t shrunken any more: rather, he was growing rapidly.

“Who’s laughing now?” he asked smugly, and hung on to her hands before she could wreak her wrath on him.

“That was _mean_!” Beckett complained. 

“So were you, and I didn’t see you having any sympathy for me then.”

Beckett emitted an indeterminate grumble, but as Castle’s grip shifted to encompass her slim waist and pet her, it became a half-purr of satisfaction. She wiggled. Castle gave a pleased male rumble, and wriggled in his turn. Beckett didn’t bother with another wiggle; she simply reached into the drawer in the nightstand, sheathed him, and slid down on to him. There were no more giggles.

“I have to go home,” Castle murmured later. “I’ll see you tomorrow – when does your shift start?”

“Eight,” Beckett replied, too sated and sleepy to wonder why he had asked.

He kissed her deeply, then dressed and left.

***

“What are you doing here?” Beckett hissed, as Castle ambled in with a happy smile at two minutes past eight.

“I brought you coffee,” he offered. She took the coffee, but it didn’t produce more than a brief, beautiful, smile.

“Why are you here?” she demanded again.

“You said I could sit in on your discussion with Montgomery.”

“I did _not_.”

“Didn’t you?” Castle said innocently. “I was sure you had.”

“You know perfectly well I didn’t.”

“I’m here now,” Castle grinned, “so you might as well let me come with you.”

“The Captain won’t allow it.”

“I’ll ask him. If he says yes, will you stop arguing?”

“If he says yes – but he won’t – then I’ll have to.”

“Okay,” Castle said cheerily, and bounced off to Montgomery’s office, pursued by Beckett’s astonished, horrified gaze.

“Hey, Roy,” he greeted Montgomery’s bent head.

“Rick? What the hell are you doing in my office at” – he checked his watch – “eight in the morning? I thought you didn’t get up till ten?”

“Unfair. I get up with Alexis every morning.” Castle shut the door. “I wanted to ask if I could sit in when Beckett asks to talk to you in about, oooh, thirty seconds after I exit your office.”

“What?” Montgomery scowled at Castle. “What game are you playing this time, Rick?”

“No game. I…well, I think I’ve got a new character and it’s based on Beckett, so I need to see how she acts in all sorts of situations. This is a big one.”

Montgomery’s scowl darkened. “What is it?”

“I think she’d better tell you,” Castle deflected. “It’s an NYPD matter, and I don’t get it.”

“Does she _know_ you’re basing a character on her?”

“Ye-es,” Castle dragged out.

Montgomery suddenly grinned. “I don’t guess she liked it much.”

“Nope.”

“That’s not stopping you, though.”

“Nope. But it doesn’t mean there’s a book based on her.”

Montgomery raised his eyebrows. “Shouldn’t that be _yet_ , Rick? Last time you went off on this it was Clara Strike.”

“I didn’t base a book on her. She was part of Storm.”

“Hmmmm,” Montgomery hummed sceptically.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Castle said, “can I sit in?”

“I guess. But you don’t say a single word, okay? Make like a closet. Shut it.”

“Okay,” Castle agreed, perfectly contented now that he’d got what he wanted.

“And make sure she’s had at least one cup of coffee before she sees me.”

“Already done.”

Montgomery muttered something that might have been _smartass_. “Out. I’m busy even if you spend all day sitting around in your pyjamas.”

“I don’t!” Castle squawked.

“Out!”

Castle went. He sauntered back to Beckett’s desk with a smug smile.

“He said yes,” he smirked.

Beckett growled, and then scowled, and then acquired an attitude of iron-spined resolution. “Okay then. Let’s go _do_ this. Sergeant McMahon is going to regret last night.”


	16. Chapter 16

Beckett tapped politely on Montgomery’s door.

“Enter.”

She marched in, followed by Castle, who promptly shut the door and then did his best imitation of a hat stand by sidling into a corner and remaining absolutely still and quiet.

“Detective Beckett.”

“Sir.” She stood at formal parade attention. “I have to make a report to you.” Her voice was dead level, completely devoid of emotion.

“Proceed.”

“I have to report Sergeant McMahon, of the 22nd Precinct, for conduct unbecoming to an NYPD Sergeant.”

Montgomery’s jaw dropped. “Say what? _Conduct unbecoming_? Explain,” he continued in cold tones.

“Sergeant McMahon called me at approximately ten p.m. last night to ask me to collect my father, who had been picked up for drunkenness in a public place. Again,” she couldn’t help adding bitterly. Her voice returned to dead level. “I refused. I cannot help my father by bailing him out. Sergeant McMahon asked again, and when I refused, he, knowing that I was an NYPD detective, threatened me with being written up for disciplinary measures if I did not immediately report to collect my father.”

“He said _what_?” Montgomery expostulated.

“I refused, and informed him that I would be reporting his behaviour to you this morning. On hearing that, he claimed that he had not meant it and that I must have misunderstood. I did not mishear and I did not misunderstand, sir.” She swallowed. “I further consider that, if Sergeant McMahon is prepared to make threats like that against a fellow NYPD officer, then he may be using similarly unprofessional methods against both other officers and members of the public. Sir. Therefore I am reporting him to you so that you may decide on the best course of action.”

A long moment of chill silence passed, in which Montgomery clearly considered the situation and all of his options, none of which, from his sucked-lemon expression, were palatable. Beckett continued to stand at full parade attention, though her fingers trembled.

“Is there anything else which you said to Sergeant MeMahon?”

“I informed him that if you ordered me to collect my father, as my Captain, I would not do so. Sir.”

“An order which I would not have given,” Montgomery said dryly, “since it is not an order which should ever be made.” He breathed out. “You’ve done the right thing reporting to me, Detective Beckett, but you’ve left me with a pretty problem. Still, that’s why I’m the Captain.”

“Sir, there is another matter.”

“Oh?”

“Uh, Castle wants to sit with a Robbery detective same as he’s been sitting with me, for Storm. May I introduce him to someone, sir?”

Montgomery grinned impishly, and met Castle’s nod. “Really? Okay. Um, there’s a newish guy in Robbery…Demming, that’s it. Detective Tom Demming. You can make his acquaintance at a point where it doesn’t interfere with either of your shifts. And since you’ve left me with one problem, you can work out how to introduce Mr Castle to him. Dismissed, Detective.”

“Thank you, sir.” Beckett made for the door.

“Mr Castle, wait a moment.”

Beckett exited with alacrity, and Castle shut the door again.

“Rick, what the hell?”

“Pretty much exactly what Beckett said. She was furious. She didn’t hesitate about reporting to you for a second.”

“Actually, I meant the Robbery information. I have no doubt of Beckett’s integrity.”

“I’m thinking about a Storm plotline where someone’s assets have been stolen by a trusted relative – including commercial secrets.”

Montgomery clearly didn’t believe a word of that. “Hm. Well, if Detective Demming will assist, far be it from me to get between you and your so-called genius. Bye, Rick.”

“See you.”

Castle whipped out of the office before anything could go wrong. At her desk, Beckett was on the phone, but she finished up the call as he arrived.

“Okay. Detective Demming will be able to meet you” –

“Us. You have to come too and introduce me – vouch for me – otherwise he might not realise what a wonderful person I am.”

Beckett spluttered. “Yeah, right. Try doughnuts. Much more likely to work. Anyway, he’ll meet us at five, when shift ends. Just come here, and then we’ll go down to Robbery.”

“Come here? Can’t I stay?”

“No. I’ve got paperwork, and surely you have to write?”

Castle pouted at her. “I can do that any time. I wanna stay here and watch how it all works.”

“Not my call. Montgomery said you could be here after shift so that’s what you’re allowed. I have to get down to work.”

“Okay,” Castle grumbled. “I’ll go. I’ll be back just before five.” He wandered unenthusiastically out of the precinct, towards the subway.

Halfway home, inspiration hammered him on the head. He almost ran back to the loft from Spring Street, opened a new document, and began to write. He didn’t lift his fingers from the keyboard until his bladder became painful, and then he simply made himself comfortable, set an alarm – loudly – for four-thirty, and returned to his new idea.

At four-thirty he dragged himself away from his laptop and dashed off to the precinct and Beckett. He had no great hopes of Demming the Robbery detective being anything other than short, fat, and, well, ordinary.

“Hey, Beckett.”

“Hi. I’m just finishing up.” She efficiently tapped into a form, put all the paperwork neatly into a file, and shut down. “Let’s go find Detective Demming.”

“Do you know him?” Castle asked as they passed through a beat-up door and into a dingy back stairwell.

“Nope, but I haven’t really had a chance to get to know anyone outside Homicide and the people I met as an officer.” She smiled. “It’ll be nice to hear about something other than murder.”

Robbery Division looked very much like the Homicide bullpen, but the terminology was quite different: instead of gruesome medical detail, violence and gore there were cold financial words; money and assets; and only the occasional reference to violence or mugging.

Beckett looked around, a little uncertain, and then asked. The cop she spoke to waved a hand over to the far corner.

“Hey,” Beckett said, “Detective Demming?”

“Hi. You’re Beckett? Nice to meet you.” He looked up, and then stood up. 

Castle got a good look at him, and nearly gasped. Detective Demming was tall – taller than Castle himself, blue-eyed, clean cut, and (Castle supposed) good-looking. He was also staring at Beckett as if he’d never seen a woman before in his life.

“Call me Tom,” he said to Beckett.

“Okay.” She didn’t give her own first name, which Castle noted with a little stir of happy malice. “This is Richard Castle. He writes” –

“Storm,” Demming said. “I like those books.” He turned to Castle and extended a hand, which Castle shook with a rather firmer grip than usual. “What did you want to know?”

“Why don’t we go find a room and talk about it?” Castle said. Originally, he’d planned to invite Demming out for a beer, but he wasn’t going to welcome someone who was quite obviously eyeing up Beckett.

“Sure.”

“I’m going back up to Homicide,” Beckett said, somewhat to Castle’s surprise. “Bring him back up when you’re done, please – we don’t want him wandering about the precinct getting into trouble.”

“Okay.”

Beckett disappeared. Demming ushered Castle to a comfortable space and, for the next hour, answered Castle’s list of purely business-related questions.

“Can I come back to you if there’s anything more?” Castle wound up, with the same polite formality he’d used all along.

“Sure. Looking forward to the next book.” Castle managed a tight smile. Demming was a fan, after all, and he tried never to disappoint a fan. “Let’s get you back upstairs.”

Back on the Homicide floor, Beckett had been occupying herself with the never-ending paperwork. She’d noticed Demming’s interest immediately, and decided that absence would be the better plan. When the two men arrived, Castle excused himself.

“Uh, Beckett?”

“Yeah?”

“Uh, look, would you like to go for a drink sometime?”

Castle returned just in time to hear Demming hitting on _his girl_. Beckett gave Demming a slightly apologetic grin. “Sorry, I’m already seeing someone,” she said. 

Demming’s face fell, to Castle’s delight, but he took it bravely. “I guess I should’ve expected that,” he said. “Oh, well, if it doesn’t work out, you know where I am.”

“Yep. Thanks for the offer.”

Castle took some care not to show his reactions as Demming bade them farewell and disappeared to the bowels of the Robbery floor. For Castle’s money, he could stay there forever and rot.

“Jealous?” Beckett asked, amusedly.

“Of course not.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not!”

“Better tell your face that, because it’s a delicate shade of green. Or was that just your lunch not agreeing with you?”

Castle abruptly realised that he hadn’t had any lunch – and further, that he hadn’t seen hide nor hair of his mother today. Both were worrying for entirely different reasons.

“I’m starving,” he complained. “Come back to mine and I’ll make us dinner. I’ve got to prove that I can cook too.”

“It’s not a competition, you know. And you don’t have to prove anything to me,” she said as she shrugged on her jacket. “I turned him down.”

Castle humphed. With very little effort, Beckett heard _hitting on my girl I’ll show him_. If it meant she would have a good meal that didn’t involve cooking for herself, she’d take it. He’d get over his momentary jealousy by the time she’d snuggled into his side on the subway.

Snuggling proved perfectly effective, and better still it accorded precisely with Beckett’s own desire. Not that it wasn’t nice to be asked out, but…workplace romances were never a good plan, and she didn’t want to be regarded as fair game by her co-workers in any division. She wriggled a little to be totally tucked in, and stayed happily in place until they reached Castle’s apartment.

The same babysitter as last time was paid off and departed, but Castle’s mother was nowhere in sight. Alexis, by contrast, bounced up to her father, hugged him and was swept up off the floor. “Hi, Daddy!” she chirped. “You brought her home again.”

“She is Detective Beckett, Alexis,” Castle chided gently. 

“Hi, Detective Beckett.”

“Hello,” Beckett said awkwardly. Pre-teen children weren’t her natural society – they rarely committed murder or other crimes, and though she’d done her share of babysitting to earn money, it had tended to babies. Children who walked and talked fluently were outside of her skill set and her limited social circle.

Until now, it seemed. Still, she was pretty sure she wouldn’t need to have much to do with Castle’s daughter, and she certainly wasn’t intending to get involved in his family life. Dinner would do just fine.

“Have you come for dinner? Daddy, is it dinner time yet? What are we having?”

“Yes, Detective Beckett has come for dinner. No, it won’t be dinner time until I’ve cooked it. We’ll have a chicken pasta bake with ratatouille, and then you can have ice cream.”

“What are you having?”

Castle grinned at his daughter. “Chocolate mousse.”

“Daddy!” she wailed. “That’s not fair!”

“Oh?”

“I want chocolate mousse too!” Castle coughed. “Please?”

“Of course,” Castle conceded, in a tone which the little girl obviously recognised as teasing.

“Daddy, you’re mean. Detective Beckett won’t like it.”

“Come on, then. Let’s go and make dinner.”

Castle and daughter trooped off to the kitchen. Beckett stood, rather nonplussed, until Castle looked back. “Come on, Beckett. You can sit and drink wine while I slave over a hot stove.” She raised an eyebrow. “Okay, okay. I like cooking.” He turned to his daughter. “If you’re careful, you can chop the zucchini and tomatoes.”

“I’ll be careful,” she promised.

Castle poured himself and Beckett a glass of wine each, which she tasted cautiously and then took a larger sip. “Nice,” she said.

“Good.” He went back to chopping chicken into small cubes, fast and accurate. His daughter sat on a high stool, tongue poking out of the side of her mouth in concentration, chopping very slowly and carefully. Castle flicked quick glances at her every second stroke of his knife, but didn’t interfere.

The vegetables went into a large stewpot, to which Castle added a handful of unidentified herbs. Shortly it began to simmer, and emit enticing smells. Castle stirred it gently, tasted it, added another batch of herbs and a pinch of salt; and then tapped Alexis on the head.

“Where’s Grams?”

“I don’t know. She went out when Rina got here.”

“Okay. Now, you can go read until dinner’s ready.” Alexis dashed off, clearly (and thankfully) far more interested in reading than Beckett.

Castle ambled over, after he’d whipped up a chocolate mousse in bare moments, and slung an arm around her. “On balance,” he said, “I think I made one tiny little mistake with dinner tonight.”

“What?” Beckett asked suspiciously, sure that Castle was plotting something.

“We should have stopped off at your apartment first.”

“Why?”

“Because after I’ve provided you with the best dinner ever” – she made a disgusted noise at his conceit – “you’ll have eaten so much you won’t want to go home. But you don’t have a change of clothes, so that means you’ll have to get up far too early, which isn’t fun.”

“You’re making an assumption there.”

“I am?”

“You’re assuming I’d stay.”

“Well, I can think of lots of things we could do if you stayed.” He smirked rakishly, and waggled his eyebrows meaningfully.

“So can I,” Beckett replied, with a sultry smile and a nibble of her lip.

Castle kissed her. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Might be,” she flirted. “Were you thinking of Monopoly?”

Castle spluttered with laughter. “Witch,” he said. “We can play Monopoly if you like. But it’s not nearly as much fun as some other things.”

“No-o.” She peeped through her lashes, and Castle promptly kissed her again. “I like sleeping, too.”

Castle’s eyes crinkled. “I like sleeping,” he said. “I especially like sleeping with a companion.”

“I’ll bring you a teddy bear.”

“Not quite how I would describe you, but if that’s what you want…” He ran down in the face of Beckett’s glare. “Anyway, it would have been nice if you could have stayed, rather than going out into the cold dark night.”

“I have to be on shift at eight. That means I have to go home.”

“But you don’t want to,” Castle said, letting his thoughts out of his head without benefit of filters or thought.

“I – that’s not relevant,” Beckett said, privately absolutely horrified about how much she _didn’t_ want to go home. It was ridiculous. This wasn’t attraction, it was wholesale infatuation. Too much, too soon was a bad idea - “Isn’t that the oven timer?”

“Oh – yes!” Castle hurried over to it, brought out the pasta bake and gave the ratatouille a stir. “Could you put some plates out, please? That cupboard, and I’ll set the table.” He took cutlery, calling for Alexis as he set it out.

Dinner disappeared in silence and with a speed appropriate to its savour. It was delicious. The chocolate mousse left Beckett in chocolate heaven, out of which she barely emerged to notice Castle’s mention that he was off to say goodnight to Alexis. She curled up on the couch, as food-comatose as after her own cooking for Castle, and digested, half-dozing after a tiring day.

“Oh! My dear, I didn’t mean to disturb you. Has Richard deserted you? Disgraceful. You’d never believe I taught him manners, would you? Now, while he’s missing, let’s get to know each other.” Beckett woke with a bang to see Castle’s mother standing almost over her. “I am Martha Rodgers, actress. And Richard’s mother, of course.” Ms Rodgers caught Beckett’s surprise. “I was a terribly young mother, my dear. And I use the _best_ moisturiser.” She smiled. “Now, who are you? Richard monumentally failed to introduce us the other night.”

“Detective Beckett,” Beckett said.

“A _detective_? Don’t tell me my son is on parole?” Ms Rodgers sat down with a thump.

“No.” Beckett was flabbergasted.

“You’re his _girlfriend_?”

“Uh” –

“You’re certainly several cuts above his usual style. A real job, some brains, and beauty. Darling, couldn’t you have done better for yourself?” Ms Rodgers looked Beckett up and down. “You’d be a smash hit in all the best places.”

“To which I can take her if she likes, Mother,” Castle pronounced, arriving from the stairs at – from Beckett’s perspective – just the right moment. “However, unlike you and your theatrical cronies, she appreciates good food and not just good wine.”

“I have only been home for two days” –

“And before that I lived with you – boarding school excepted – for twenty-one years. You taught me to make Bloody Marys.”

“An essential life skill,” Ms Rodgers said with a toss of her red head.

“Indeed, but not in fifth grade.”

Beckett had to swallow her splutter of mirth.

“Nonsense, it’s essential at any age.”

“Mother, where’ve you been all day?” Castle diverted.

“Re-acquainting myself with the Broadway scene, darling. I shall have to follow up all of my old” –

“Flames?”

“Contacts,” Ms Rodgers said in stentorian tones. “My genius will shine through the Broadway lights.”

Castle hummed something, part way under his breath. To Beckett, struggling not to suffocate with her efforts not to collapse in laughter, it sounded very like: _Give 'em the old Razzle Dazzle/ Razzle dazzle 'em/ Show 'em the first rate sorcerer you are/ Long as you keep 'em way off balance/ How can they spot you've got no talent?_ Possibly fortunately, his mother didn’t hear it.

“I’m sure it will,” he said. “Are you meeting your old enemies tomorrow?”

“I have no enemies. Merely rivals. Yes.” She stood. “I must repair the ravages of the day and attend an elegant soiree to reintroduce myself to theatrical society. I shall, I suppose, see you tomorrow?”

“I expect so, Mother. This is my loft, after all.”

“I was talking to this lovely young thing,” Ms Rodgers said quellingly.

“I don’t think so,” Beckett said. “I have to work.”

“What a shame. However, I’m sure that we can become better acquainted very soon.” Ms Rodgers bestowed theatrical air kisses on Beckett’s scarlet cheeks, and swished to the stairs in the best Grande Dame manner.

Beckett stared at her departing form in much the same way that she might have regarded a fabulous, mythical being. “Wow,” she managed.

“Yes. That’s Mother.”

“Wow,” she said again. “She’s…something else.”

“One of a kind,” said Castle. “Which is probably a good thing. I don’t think the world could cope with two of her in it.”

“I shall ignore that, Richard,” floated down from above.

“Just like she ignores most of what I say.” He smiled lazily. “Anyway, I have a far better idea. Let’s finish the wine and then…see what comes up.”

“Okay.”

“ _After_ Mother’s gone out.”

“Okay,” Beckett said, much more enthusiastically.


	17. Chapter 17

Castle’s mother took rather longer to titivate herself and depart than either Castle or Beckett would have liked. The wine had relaxed Beckett completely, and she was only too ready to nestle into Castle and let his broad body take away the last of the stresses and strains of the day. Once his mother had gone, she snuggled in and finally let herself unwind. Castle, despite his earlier suggestiveness, simply curled an arm around her and held her closely, allowing her time and space to ease into him. She sighed quietly, and then softened.

After a little time, she raised her head a fraction from his shoulder, and dusted a kiss across his jaw. Castle’s reaction was instant: he brought her up to his mouth and kissed her hard, pouring out passion and, Beckett thought before all thought was lost, driving any idea of other men – or other Demming-Detectives – from her head. There hadn’t been any idea of that sort _in_ her head, but if he wanted to ensure it, he was going the right way about it.

“We’re in the wrong place,” he murmured. “Come through to my study. It’s a little less public if Mother comes storming back early or if Alexis wakes – though she never usually wakes.”

Beckett hadn’t seen much beyond the door on her first abortive visit, and though she’d noticed the bookshelves and a room behind them today, the excellence of the food had held her attention. The study was eclectic: toys on the windowsill, a large desk, a screen that resembled her murder board except considerably more hi-tech, a TV, and a comfortable-looking couch; into which Castle promptly plopped down, pulling her after him. Not accidentally, she ended up in his lap, though _whose_ non-accidental idea that was could certainly be open to debate. Anyway, it was a very comfortable lap, and it had the distinct advantage that Castle was providing it, along with some more kisses and some soothing, if non-specific, petting.

Castle was pleased to pet, and more pleased to be petted in return. He certainly enjoyed sex, but he liked it so much better when accompanied by affection, cuddles, and petting. Fortunately Beckett seemed to like all of those things too. He vaguely thought that it was amazing how quickly they had, well, _got on_. He _liked_ her, rather than simply _wanting_ her. She gave him no respect at all for being rich and semi-famous, and he liked that just fine; she could pierce pomposity with a sentence, and he liked that too; and – though he wasn’t going to tell her this, at least not yet – she’d inspired four full chapters of a new book, which was as much as he managed on a really good day with Storm.

Anyway, here was a cuddlesome Beckett, whose sleepy eyes were developing a not-so-sleepy mischievous sparkle, perfectly positioned in his lap and inviting kisses with that naughty nibble of her lip. He was happy to oblige, after which her petting became considerably more specific, as did his, after which he introduced Beckett to his bedroom.

“Is that a bed, or a cruise boat?” she asked, staring at his king-size bed.

“Right now, it’s a dreamboat,” Castle said cheesily. Beckett groaned, and then squeaked as he swept her up and deposited her in the middle of the bed, whipping away her shoes. “There. Now, what shall we do?”

“Sleep,” Beckett said naughtily, and firmly shut her eyes as she wriggled under the counterpane and on to the piled pillows.

“Okay,” Castle answered amiably, stripped to his boxers and slid in beside her. “But you can’t sleep in shirt and pants. You need to take them off. I’m sure it wouldn’t be comfortable to keep that pretty bra on” –

“You don’t know what my bra looks like today.”

“It’s been pretty every other time I’ve seen it, so I think you like pretty underwear. I sure do.”

“I’d noticed,” she said dryly. “Not that you seem to take much time about appreciating it.”

“I appreciate all sorts of beautiful things, especially the sort that live under your clothes.”

Beckett choked. That bore the same relation to subtlety as a vulture to a wren.

“Now, how about you make yourself a little more comfortable?”

Beckett yawned. She didn’t mean to: she’d intended to flirt a bit more and then pursue some of the more enjoyable options for a comfortable bed; but instead she yawned enormously. Castle slid out of his bed, and shortly produced an elderly t-shirt. 

“You’re tired,” he noted. “How about you really do go to sleep, all tucked up here?”

Beckett sat up. “I can’t,” she lamented. “I’ll be late for work. I guess I’d better go home.” She drooped a little, leaning back, and her lashes dropped. She jerked up. Castle took the path of (some) morality and pulled her up to standing, though he couldn’t resist hugging her, and then dropping several little pecks on the top of her head in the hope that she would look up and be in a position to be kissed properly.

She did look up, but since she also stepped back, kissing her properly wasn’t quite possible. He looked carefully at her, noting the sudden weariness in her face and posture. “You could sleep here, if I set an alarm for you, but that would be” – he suddenly smirked – “hugely disappointing for you. You’d be even less inclined to leave.”

“If you’re going to be like that about it, I’ll be _more_ inclined to leave.” But she didn’t resist when he gathered her close again, nor when he kissed her deeply.

“Night night,” he said cheerfully. “I’d see you to the outer door, but I don’t think the other residents would really appreciate my attire.”

“Nope.”

“So I’ll leave you at this door.”

“Night, Castle,” she said.

“Till tomorrow.”

She acquired a tiny spark of mischief. “You can spend it with Detective Demming.”

“You…you…you! No!”

“Gotcha,” she giggled, and disappeared into the elevator.

***

Beckett, unusually, grabbed a cab to get home, rather than braving the subway late at night. She gratefully arrived at her apartment – and not at all gratefully saw a note pinned to her front door.

_That noisy drunk was here again. Had to have him arrested. Can you do something about him?_

Oh, fuck. She looked at her phone, but there were no missed calls. She needn’t feel guilty or have that fight again – and she doubted that Sergeant McMahon would be calling her after this morning’s report. She would do something about her father – tomorrow. Tell him face to face that she was never bailing him out again; tell him not to come around; tell him that she wasn’t going to be there if he couldn’t stay off the booze; tell him…tell him he wasn’t being a father to her.

Tell him she was done.

_Dear Diary. Thanks to my drunk dad, I’ve probably had my card marked by half the NYPD for reporting McMahon and by all the neighbours for the disturbances around my apartment. If he comes around again, they’ll probably ask the building manager to tell me to vacate. That’ll be great. Not. What else can he screw up for me?_

_Maybe I shouldn’t ask that. What if he came to the precinct, drunk? Or met Castle? So I guess it could be worse._

_That doesn’t really help. It’s quite bad enough without borrowing trouble. I guess I just have to tell him I’m done. No point in waiting: he’s not getting better. Maybe he’ll never get better. I need to accept that._

_I don’t want to accept that. I just want my Dad back, sober again. It’s never going to happen till he decides – if he decides. If._

_Fuck._

Eventually, she fell asleep.

***

Castle’s phone beeped mid-morning, with a text from Beckett. _Sorry, have some stuff to do right after work. Raincheck? KB_

He sent back _Sure. RC_ , and only then wondered why she’d cancelled on him when not twelve hours ago she’d expected to see him at the end of her shift.

Beckett buried her fears in work for the whole of the day, but as soon as her shift finished she set her teeth, straightened her spine, and took the subway uptown to her father’s apartment, hoping she would find him there. She didn’t bother hoping that he was sober. Miracles only happened in the Bible.

Terrified, but resolved to _do_ this no matter the cost, she rapped on her father’s apartment door. At the point where she was almost ready to leave, she heard shuffling within, and the door opened.

“Katie!” her dad said, only the tiniest hint of a slosh tinging his words. “You come to see me?” It came out as _shee me_. He didn’t notice her wincing. “C’mon in. Wanna drink?”

She strode in, and pulled on Detective Beckett, not Katie-his-daughter. “Dad, we need to talk,” she said firmly.

“We do? Okay, Katie.”

Her father shuffled off. If she hadn’t been watching him, she’d never have noticed the slight sway. Since he’d evidently forgotten about it, she shut the door before she followed him. He flumped down into an armchair, by which was a small table, the surface marked with rings, holding a glass. Empty. She didn’t know if that was from the night before or this afternoon, and told herself she didn’t care. She didn’t sit down, standing, judging, in the centre of the room.

“Dad, I’m not going to bail you out again. If you get arrested, that’s your problem,” she said baldly, desperate to get through this without breaking down into anger or tears. “You’re drowning in booze, and if I carry on rescuing you, you’ll just keep drowning but you’ll drown me too. I’m not going to drown, so I’m not saving you any more. It’s up to you now.”

His face went slack, shocked. “Katie” –

“No. I’m not dying with you. If you want to die because Mom did, then you’re going to do it without me because _I don’t want to die_!” She swallowed, and controlled herself. “This is goodbye, Dad. If you get dry, call me.”

She closed his front door painfully gently behind her. No sounds came from his apartment, no calls after her to say he’d change. She hadn’t expected any, but still, it hurt. She supposed, heading home, rigorously preventing any dampness in her eyes or tightness in her throat, that now she might as well be an orphan. She’d probably be one for real, pretty soon, but she didn’t want to drown with her father.

The magnitude of her action only fully hit her when she closed her own front door behind her, and didn’t have to hold composure through the subway. She’d cast her father away, into the outer darkness – and he hadn’t seemed to care.

She flung herself on her bed as she might have done as a child, and sobbed until she could sob no more; cried dry, and fell asleep, exhausted by emotion, still dressed.

When Beckett woke, she was uncomfortable, chilled, and, since she hadn’t removed her make-up, resembled a pantomime raccoon. Her pillowcase was also smudged and smeared, which meant that she’d have to throw it in to wash and hope that it came clean. Even after a hot shower, she could sense a dull headache behind her temples; and the thought of the day ahead didn’t thrill her for almost the first time since she’d become a detective. She told herself off for her discouraged state, and pretended it had worked, all the way through the day. At shift end, however, she left upon the instant.

Consequently, when Castle arrived, a few moments after shift had ended, she was missing. He looked around, a touch confused.

“She already left,” someone said.

“Oh, okay.” Castle hid his concern and a touch of irritation, and departed. As he exited the precinct, it occurred to him that he could just go see Beckett, who was bound to be at her apartment, and find out what was going on. Off he dashed, consumed with the need for answers, and beat a rat-a-tat-tat on her door.

It opened, slowly, to reveal a Beckett which Castle had never seen – never expected to see. No make-up, old, shabby sweats, tangled hair. She looked like she’d spent a wet week in the open, and her eyes were haunted. Though she was no thinner than two days before, somehow, she was gaunt and pale. 

“What’s _wrong_?” he gasped as the door swung shut. 

“I’m fine.”

“You aren’t _fine_ ,” he said flatly. “You’re a mess.”

“Feel free to leave, if that’s what you think,” Beckett snapped back, quite unfairly. “I guess you’re used to perfect women.”

“Oh, sure,” Castle said sarcastically. “That’s why I’m here. You’re the epitome of the perfect woman.”

Beckett burst into tears, which surprised Castle no more than it surprised Beckett. “Go away,” she snuffled.

Castle stepped forward and hugged her. “There, there,” he soothed. “Stop snapping and sobbing and snuggle in. Hey, listen to my wonderfully spontaneous alliteration! I really ought to be a writer, don’t you think?” Beckett snuffled some more, and didn’t even try to prick the balloon of his conceit. “Okay, what’s really wrong – oh. What’s your dad done this time?”

“How did you know?”

Castle drew her down to the couch and put a consoling arm about her shoulders. “Nothing else seems to upset you, so…it was deduction. See, I’m learning to be a detective. Think the NYPD would have me?”

Beckett ignored that.

“Now, what’s your dad done?”

“Not him.” Castle boggled. “Me.” 

He boggled harder. “You? What’ve you done?”

She started to cry again. Castle was suddenly reminded that Beckett wasn’t nearly as old as he persisted in thinking she was – she came across as far more mature than he (not that that was hard: he wasn’t that fond of maturity) – but she was only twenty four, Roy had said. She was still barely out of college, really, and already a detective – and dealing with her mother’s death and her father’s alcoholism and, no doubt (Castle had no illusions about the jealousy that early success, however much deserved, might bring), some difficulties at work from others who might feel passed over, or simply wish to bring her down a peg or two. It was understandable, when she was still so very young, that emotion might overwhelm her.

On which note, he realised that she’d stopped crying, possibly by main force. He tipped up her chin, which Beckett tried fruitlessly to resist, and regarded her. “C’mon,” he said, and marched her to her bedroom, sat her down at her vanity, and picked up her hairbrush.

“What are you _doing_?” she asked pathetically.

“Brushing your hair. Well known to be soothing.” Castle began, sliding the bristles through Beckett’s shortish, spiky cut; following with his fingers. In the mirror, he could see her shadowed eyes and pinched lips, but kept brushing, unknotting the tangles and smoothing down the wayward locks. Shortly – far too soon for Castle’s taste – Beckett’s hair was reduced to its normal orderly state. “Now, shall I do your make-up too?”

“What? No.”

“I’m really very good at it. I learned to do stage make-up when I was trotting round behind Mother to every two-bit theatre in America, so Alexis had the best pamper party in her grade.”

“I don’t want any make-up. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Okay. Let’s get take-out and snuggle. I’ve been deprived of any cuddles – Alexis is too grown-up to hug me today – I think she’s imitating Mother, which is ghastly – so you need to let me cuddle you otherwise I’ll be miserable and drip all over you.”

Castle was being extremely careful not to push Beckett to explain what she had done to leave her in this state. He was both intensely curious and quite convinced that it was to do with her father, but if Beckett were to push him away now, he felt, though he knew not why, that she’d shut him out for ever. He didn’t like that thought, and though self-control was not one of his main virtues, he could exert it if he had to.

“I guess,” Beckett said dispiritedly. “You choose. There are menus on the table.”

“Will you come out and snuggle?”

“In a minute. Go order.”

Castle strongly suspected that Beckett was intending to finish her crying jag and put on make-up to hide it, but, still allowing discretion to be the better part of valour, dropped the point and went to find a suitable take-out menu. He ordered Thai in the end, not being sure what Beckett liked beyond burgers and French cuisine, but since she’d said _you choose_ he expected that she liked most things.

A few minutes later she emerged, perfectly made up and calm, wearing jeans and a sweater and very smoothly stylish. Yet again, he didn’t comment. “I ordered Thai,” he said.

“Great.”

“It’ll be about half an hour.”

“Great.”

“Shall we have coffee while we’re waiting?”

“Great.”

“Would you like a pony?”

“Great – what?”

“Now that you’re listening,” Castle said, “shall we have a coffee?”

“Okay.” Beckett trudged across to the kettle, and began to make a pot. Castle followed, and snuggled her into his chest. She didn’t noticeably soften, but she didn’t push him away or even stiffen up either, which in this case was a win.

Conversation was distinctly lacking, until the knock of the takeout delivery guy came as a relief, at least to Castle. Beckett didn’t seem to notice it, so Castle opened the door, paid, tipped, and brought it back to put it in the oven.

“Beckett, it’s dinner time,” he said.

“Okay.” She trudged back to the kitchen and found plates and cutlery, brought them back and put them on the table. Castle brought the food: Beckett hadn’t even glanced at the oven, and he was hungry. She took some chicken and rice, but pushed it around her plate while Castle made a decent meal, staring at it as if it might have answers. He thought she’d barely had a mouthful.

“I told him we were done,” she said out of the blue: the first word she’d said since before dinner. “Told him if he wanted to die because Mom had, that was up to him – but _I_ don’t wanna die. I told him it was goodbye, and to call me if he got dry.”

Tears trickled down her face, taking eyeliner with them in black streaks. It made her look clownish, but Castle wasn’t inclined to mirth. He stopped eating, and put his arm back around her.

“I can’t drown with him. I don’t want to. I can’t help him any more but…” She dissolved into tempestuous tears again, looking no more than sixteen. Castle abandoned the remains of his meal, and hoisted her up into his lap, encouraging her head to lie on his shoulder and reflecting that a good dry cleaner would be able to remove mascara stains from his shirt. From the damp patch spreading over his collarbone, he was pretty sure there would be mascara and eyeliner adorning the fine cotton.

“You can’t help him. Maybe if you’ve told him flat out that you won’t, it’ll be what he needs to change. If he doesn’t, that’s not on you.” While he spoke, he tried to hide his astonishment at her action. _Told her father_? Face to face? That was…brave?...stupid?...desperate?

“No?”

“No. Now come here, and let me cuddle you.”


	18. Chapter 18

Beckett curled into Castle as if he were her last hope of salvation, and stayed still and quiet within his arms for some time. Eventually, she unfurled and stretched.

“I know I can’t save him,” she sighed sadly. “But now I’ve no-one.” She sighed again. “At least I’ve got a job.”

“You love being a cop.” Castle seized on the chance to turn the evening to a more positive note. “You’re already a detective, so you must be good at it.”

“I guess. There’s still a lot of grunt work.”

“Same in any job. Even writing. Editing. I _hate_ editing.”

“You do?”

“Tedious, boring, soul-destroying. I hate it.”

“You’ve still got to do it,” Beckett said.

“It doesn’t mean I have to like it. I like writing. I don’t like correcting and editing.”

“Accuracy is important.”

“I agree with that. Why do you think I’m asking you all these questions? It’s important to get it right. But editing is all about putting in missing commas and checking my spelling and grammar and wondering if a different word would be better and then taking out all the repetition and it’s just _no fun_.” His face changed. “We could have fun.”

“Here we go,” she said to the air.

“No, I don’t mean that sort of fun, though of course we can if you would like. I mean ordinary fun. Like ice creams, or going to the movies, or…or…Coney Island, or the Staten Island Ferry, or a picnic.”

“At eight p.m.?”

“No. Stop being so negative. Next day you’re off. If it’s sunny, we’ll all go and have a picnic.”

“We all?”

“You, me, Alexis, one of Alexis’s friends to keep her busy and happy… it’ll be fun. If it’s raining, come round and we’ll build blanket forts and have movies and popcorn.”

“Uh,” Beckett said weakly, watching her life being organised for her. It wasn’t a malady from which she regularly suffered. Her life was perfectly well organised – by her. Family picnics or movies in blanket forts hadn’t figured in her schedule since she was around ten, and she hadn’t been upset by their lack.

“It’ll be fun. Fun is important. It makes the world happier, and it’s nice to be happy,” Castle said. Happily.

Beckett wasn’t convinced that compulsory fun made anyone happy, least of all her, but clearly it made Castle happy, and more relevantly he was obviously going to continue thinking up things that might be fun – for him, anyway – until she agreed. A picnic would be bearable, and if the weather were nice, even pleasant, so long as she didn’t have to do any child-wrangling. Blanket forts, on the other hand, were for babies, which she was not.

She regarded Castle’s smiling face and bright blue eyes, and couldn’t bear to kill the childlike enthusiasm and warmth emanating from them.

“Okay,” she acquiesced. “My next day off is Saturday, anyway.”

“Great!” Castle bounced, and hugged her hard. “It’ll be wonderful, you’ll see.”

Beckett wasn’t so sure, but somehow Castle’s enthusiasm was contagious. She nestled in, put her head back on his shoulder, and breathed in essence-of-Castle: an addictive mixture of cologne and maleness, which surely had medicinal qualities, since it was, exceedingly quickly, relieving her misery at both her father’s behaviour and her own response to that behaviour. 

It didn’t only have medicinal qualities, she soon discovered, as Castle’s patent brand of silliness had removed her misery and left space for other feelings to creep in. It was also an aphrodisiac. She wouldn’t tell him that, she’d just breathe his aroma in and feel much better. Endorphins, or something. She could use some endorphins. More than some, in fact. Lots, to overcome the spectre at her shoulder: chase it away for tonight. Tomorrow could look after itself, for now.

She nuzzled into his neck, and then nipped it. He rumbled, wordlessly, and then tipped her down across his lap, smiling wolfishly, and pounced on her: raiding her mouth until she gave in and let him take everything he wanted. Conveniently, that covered giving her everything _she_ wanted. Her hands locked around his neck, pulling him down, but suddenly he rolled and she was above him, lying along his body with _his_ hands clamped at shoulders and ass, pressing her into hard weight below her and hips thrusting up against her.

She pulled a little away, and unbuttoned his shirt, sweeping it wide and giving a pleased little noise at the muscle beneath. Castle flexed a little, and then flicked her soft sweater over her head and let it fall, revealing a pretty, pale green bra whose thin fabric didn’t conceal her rising excitement at all. When he lifted her hips, flicked her jeans open and slid them down, she wriggled them away and sat up over his waist.

“Come back down,” Castle suggested, and set his hands on her back to bring her back to his mouth.

“I’ve got a better idea,” she replied, wriggled away from him and smirked evilly from the door of the bedroom before he’d blinked twice. He reached her, leaning provocatively on the door frame in pale green underwear and a come-hither smile, in an instant, planted her against the wall and kissed her hard, grinding into her till her breathing became panting and her leg came up around his waist, opening against him. He ran a firm hand along the lean, hard muscle of her thigh, learning the cut of her quad all the way to taut rear; his touch sure and strong, experienced and expertly winding her higher. She clutched at his shoulders, heedless that her nails were biting into the muscle, as his big fingers slipped below the fabric of her panties and started to slide through hot, slick folds, dipping inside, drawing faster breathing and small noises; a moan when he entered her a little way and withdrew: digits mimicking the possession that would later come, her body tight and hot and soaked around his movement. She flowed and melted around him, not thinking, only sensing, lost to everything but him as he drove her up and up: higher and higher until she broke apart around his hand and sighed out his name.

“Bed,” he stated, and took her there, stripping shirt and pants, socks and boxers, to be naked and erect, proudly ready. She flooded again at the sight of him smoothly rolling on protection and then standing, surveying her as if she were already his (but maybe she was).

“They’re pretty, but I think they’ll be in the way,” he rasped, and suavely removed bra and panties, leaving her as unashamedly naked as he was. He leaned over her, then rose above her, catching her hands in his to place them by the side of her head, letting go for an instant to position himself just where he should be, then pushing home; each slow inch taking her up again, filling her, hard against her fluid heat and the arch and curve to him, wordlessly wanting more, deeper, harder, until they moved in unison, shattered and fell together.

Reluctantly, much later, Castle unwrapped himself from the Beckett-teddy-bear which he’d been cuddling and petting for quite some serene and soothing time. “I need to get home,” he murmured. “See you tomorrow?”

“I guess so. More of your questions?”

“Yep. I’ll have thought up a whole compendium by then.”

“Urrhhh.”

“You love it really,” he teased, and then bent to kiss her. “Till tomorrow.”

***

The week passed with only a moderate supply of murders, generally of the mundane variety. Mundanity, however, provided the senior detectives with a chance to pass off the majority of the work on to Beckett, including the more interesting pursuits of interviewing – indeed, leading interviews – and reviewing evidence as well as collecting it. She was so cheered by being given more responsibility – even if they were simple cases – that she barely noticed the days go by, took some care not to notice the absence of any contact from her father, and answered all of Castle’s questions with good humour. 

She might not have been so good-humoured if she’d realised that his questioning had moved on from techniques that Storm would use to straight police work. Castle, in fact, was constructing a new story as well as Storm, based around a rookie detective bearing a considerable resemblance to Beckett. Since it was, he told himself, simply a speculative project, he kept it to himself, not even mentioning it to Alexis. He certainly wouldn’t mention it to his mother, who was continuing her full-frontal assault on the New York theatre scene and, in consequence, his wine rack. Thanks to her late nights, she woke late too, which meant that she was generally indulging in a restorative beverage when Alexis came home from school, which further meant that Castle could amble off to the precinct safe in the knowledge that as long as he was home around eight, Alexis and her Grams were enjoying comfortable bonding time. Alexis, not having seen her Grams for some time, was exceedingly keen on spending time with her, and if Castle hadn’t been pursuing his precinct pursuits, he would have felt quite excluded.

On Friday, Castle checked the weather forecast, and found that the next day was expected to be horrible, with driving rain and a sharp fall in temperature. Picnics, therefore, were off the happiness menu, to be substituted by blanket forts and movies. He made all his preparations, and quietly hid the wine he intended to share with Beckett in his bedroom closet, where (he hoped) it would be safe from his mother’s depredations.

***

On Saturday morning, Beckett dressed herself in comfortably stylish weekend wear, ready for almost anything with which Castle might assail her. Prudently, her attire was also washable. She had very little idea of the mess-causing quotient of a ten-year old girl, but she wasn’t sanguine. She was just about to leave, when her phone chirped. She checked, in case it was Castle with some hitch or – more likely – request.

She collapsed on to her couch, completely forgetting that it was time to leave, and stared at the message from her father.

_Bug, I’m sorry. There’s only one thing I can do now._

He couldn’t. He _couldn’t_ do that. Surely, _surely_ he didn’t mean that…she hadn’t driven him that far, had she? She’d abandoned him…had it pushed him past that last taboo? She pushed the phone away, and sank her head in her hands, tears beginning to pool in her eyes.

There was another chirp. She dragged the phone back to her, barely able to focus on the screen.

_Pressed send by accident. I’m going to rehab. Dad._

“What?” she said aloud. “ _Rehab_? He’s going to _rehab_?”

She burst into tears again, this time of utter relief, unable to control her overwhelming emotions. She wept until her head was pounding and she had blown her nose so many times the skin was dry and raw, then, exhausted, fell into a doze.

She was woken by her phone ringing.

“Beckett, where _are_ you? Couldn’t you have rung to cancel?”

“Castle?” Oh, _shit_. “What time is it?”

“It’s four o’clock. You were supposed to be here by two.” He sounded completely furious.

“My dad…”

“You said you were cutting him loose. You blew us off for your drunk dad” –

“He’s gone to rehab.”

Castle’s tirade stopped in its tracks. “He what?”

“He texted. He’s going to rehab.” She started to weep again, tired, dragging tears, trying to stop them and failing. “He never went to rehab before.”

“Come over now,” Castle said, completely reversing his fury. “Come over and stay.”

“I…” –

“You can. You shouldn’t be alone. You’re upset. I’d come and get you, but I can’t leave Alexis and Mother is, thankfully, out.” His tone changed, to firm determination. “Come over. I’ll expect you in half an hour, and if you don’t show, we’ll both come and get you.”

“I…”

“Bring an overnight bag, and stay.” His voice was cheerfully commanding, and didn’t admit argument.

“Okay,” she said. “Okay,” Someone to tell her what to do, while she felt as if she was moving underwater, or through fog. It was easier to concede. “I’ll come.”

She staggered to her bedroom and threw a change of clothes, hairbrush and toothbrush into a bag. She caught a glimpse of her face, smudged and tear-stained, and washed it clean, but ignored her make-up, too tired to care, still blindsided by hope, still sure that hope would be dashed. She wanted so badly to believe that he really would change, that he’d made his decision – but deep down, she couldn’t, and the conflict within her ripped the raw edges of her heart wide open. 

A cab deposited her at Castle’s door; the doorman allowed her in, recognising her; and she finally knocked softly. The door opened, to a backdrop of _is it her, Daddy_?, and Castle took her bag, drew her inside, and put an arm around her waist, unworried by his daughter’s presence.

Castle had been incandescently angry at being stood up – as he thought – by Beckett, and more so because Alexis kept asking where she was. When he finally called her, he’d only done so to bring matters to a head.

But then she’d said her father was going to rehab, in a tired, tearful voice that told him its own tale, and his anger had drained faster than snow melted in a heat wave. He’d told her to come, and she had; and bring an overnight bag, and she had; and now he could take care of her.

He brought her in, wrapped her in, and put her bag down for her: in a few moments, when he had an excuse, he’d move it to his room, but he wasn’t opening that discussion with Alexis present or when Beckett was so clearly drained.

“Come and watch a movie,” Alexis bounced. “We’ve got popcorn and M&Ms and Reese’s Pieces and chocolate raisins and ordinary peanuts.”

“Okay,” Beckett said, mostly to stop the flow of words. She sat on the couch. Both Castles stared at her. “What?”

“You can’t sit on the couch when there are blanket forts available,” Castle pointed out.

Saying _Yes, I can_ would be the wrong answer, Beckett divined from the plaintive expressions on both faces.

“They’re really comfortable,” Alexis offered, a hopeful expression on her small face.

“Come and try it,” Castle said, and gestured at the pile of cushions beside him.

Beckett looked dubiously at the arrangement, but, again, couldn’t muster the energy to argue. In a tiny piece of her heart, it looked like it might be…fun. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had uncomplicated, childish fun. She sat down next to Castle, and found that the cushions were sinfully soft, but propped her up at exactly the right angle to see the TV.

“Okay, what shall we watch?”

“We already had _High School Musical_ , Daddy. Let’s have _Lilo and Stitch_.”

“Great choice, pumpkin. Do you like Disney, Beckett?”

“Yeah.” Disney required no thought and no intelligence, and since she presently had neither, it was as good as anything else. She had no idea what _Lilo and Stitch_ was, which wasn’t a lack she felt like betraying.

“Have some snacks. Which would you like?” In front of them were large bowls of candy and popcorn. Healthy snacks didn’t seem to figure on today’s menu. “That one’s salted, that one’s sweet. I’ll start the movie.”

Beckett annexed the bowl of M&Ms, without protest from Alexis, who was glued to the movie, and mindlessly ate her way through them as she watched the insane mischief making of the little blue alien Stitch. Soon, chocolate, emotional exhaustion, and the soothing silliness of animation had the effect that Castle had expected, and her eyelids drooped. She blinked, but the moment of wakefulness didn’t last long, and less than halfway through the movie she was asleep.

“Sshhhh, pumpkin,” Castle murmured. “Detective Beckett’s had a really busy week, and she’s tired. Let’s not disturb her.”

“Okay. But can we finish the movie?”

“Sure.”

They did. Beckett didn’t stir, and before the second movie Castle carefully lifted her and put her in his room.

“I don’t want to wake her going up the stairs and banging her feet on the wall,” he said to Alexis’s confused glance.

“Oh, okay.” Alexis turned back to _Robin Hood_ , and Castle disposed Beckett on his bed, gently removing her shoes but leaving her otherwise undisturbed. She made a soft, small noise and curled into the pillows without ever coming close to wakefulness. He shut the bedroom and then the study door, so that nothing would disturb her.

As the closing credits rolled, Beckett emerged from Castle’s room, embarrassed and tousled. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Did you…?”

“Yep. You needed the rest and me singing along might have woken you, though I’ve got an excellent baritone, which has been widely praised” –

Beckett rolled her eyes. “As has your modesty,” she noted.

“Oh, Daddy’s never modest,” Alexis said. “He says it’s a waste of time and nobody would ever believe him anyway because he’s so obviously wonderful.”

Castle and Beckett both choked, for widely different reasons. Beckett was desperately trying not to laugh, and Castle was trying to gather breath for a response to Alexis’s ingenuous commentary.

“He does? Really?” Beckett managed, as Castle went purple in the face.

“Oh, yes.”

Beckett gave up, thumped down inelegantly on a pile of cushions, and laughed till she couldn’t draw breath. It was just so perfectly, ridiculously, totally Castle-esque that she couldn’t help it. He’d been stitched up by his own daughter, completely inadvertently, and now he didn’t have a single place to go that wouldn’t walk him into the middle of explanations that he wouldn’t want to give. She laughed and laughed and laughed, until Castle shook her shoulders before it became hysteria. She eventually ran down, still squeaking occasionally at the remembered look on his face.

“Dinner time,” Castle said, somewhat sulkily. “Alexis, will you set the table, please.”

“I’ll tidy these up,” Beckett offered, waving at the blankets and cushions.

“Oh, no. We’ll need them after dinner for another movie or two. You just sit and be a good guest. Dinner won’t take more than a few moments – it’s only mac ‘n’ cheese and then ice-cream.”

Dinner passed with an enthusiastic discussion between Castles of animation techniques and the animal characters of _Robin Hood_ , with particular attention to the football-playing hen. Beckett listened, and occasionally added a comment, necessarily vague since she’d missed the movie and hadn’t otherwise seen it for some years.

“Okay, we’ll choose ice cream and then take it back to our forts,” Castle said, which clearly came as no surprise to his daughter but caused Beckett some disquiet. Still, she played along, and spent the remainder of the evening watching, with immense enjoyment, Studio Ghibli’s anime _Kiki’s Delivery Service_ and then, at Castle’s insistence, _Spirited Away_.

“Okay, pumpkin, bedtime,” Castle eventually said.

“One more movie?”

“Nope. Bedtime. Up you go and brush your teeth and hair, wash your face and I’ll be up in a moment.”

Alexis drooped off, and Castle took the opportunity to deposit a brief kiss on Beckett’s head. “Once she’s in bed, we can have some wine and a different movie, if you want.”

“Let’s decide then.”

He wandered off upstairs, and Beckett curled herself up on the couch, leaving the blankets alone for now.


	19. Chapter 19

Castle ambled back down the stairs and retrieved his excellent wine from his bedroom. Beckett looked askance at him. “Do you always have wine in your bedroom?” she queried.

“Only when I’m hiding it from Mother,” Castle replied. “Otherwise, no. Wine belongs in wine racks and definitely not in bedrooms.”

Her posture eased, and he suddenly realised that Beckett’s view of hiding alcohol would be significantly skewed by her father’s disease.

“I don’t drink in bed,” he smiled. “I might write, or read, or sleep, but not drink.” She relaxed further, as Castle expertly opened the bottle and poured two glasses. “There. Try this.” 

She sipped, and raised an eyebrow. “That’s really nice. You know your wines,” she commented, a touch wistfully.

“I’ve had longer to try them than you. Enjoy it now.” He didn’t really want to focus on the age gap. Ten years felt vast, suddenly, and he didn’t want to be reminded of it. He sat down next to Beckett, and put a warm arm around her slim shoulders, encouraging her to nestle in and be comfortable; feeling, with some reason, that gentle comfort was the order of the day. Pleasingly, she did nestle, cupping her wine glass in her hands and sipping slowly, savouring.

“He said he was going to rehab,” she said, voice trembling, hands shaking. He took the glass from her before it spilled, and put it within easy reach. “He texted and said there was only one thing he could do. He was sorry. At first I thought…I thought…it read like he was going to…” She sniffed. “I really thought I’d driven him to it.”

“You thought he was suicidal,” Castle said bluntly, understanding instantly why Beckett had been so emotional.

“Yeah.” She sniffed. “But he’d pressed send too soon, he said. He meant he was going to rehab. He’s _never_ mentioned rehab before. I suggested it once…” she trailed off, and sniffed again. 

“He didn’t take it well?”

“Something like that.” The words were chopped short, and Castle concluded that there had been a vicious argument. He cuddled her closer. “But now he says he’s going to go.” She sighed. “I want to believe him.” she said miserably. “I really want to, but if he fails again and I believed in him…I can’t deal with that. I can deal with reality, it’s the hope that kills me. Every time, he’s let me down.” Her voice broke. “Every time. I can’t keep hoping.”

Castle had a sudden, stabbing memory of his first thoughts on reading Beckett’s diary. He’d thought…maybe she’d thought first that her father was suicidal because that was where she had been. _Had_ _been_. Please God, not _still_ _was_.

“It’s not up to you, though,” he said. “Your hopes are _yours_. He doesn’t know about them. Well, he doesn’t know now, because you told him you wouldn’t keep bailing him out. He thinks you’ve given up, and that’s why he’s going to rehab. He’s reached the bottom, and there’s nothing – no-one – left there. He’s going because he’s finally realised that he can’t lose you.” He paused, but didn’t look at her, sensing that her bent head concealed more tears. “He’s found something that means more than booze to him, and it’s you.”

She buried her face in her hands. Castle pulled her round and into him and cradled her, rocking her as if she were a child. “But whether he gets dry or not isn’t on you. It’s down to him, and only him. You can’t do it for him. You don’t need to hope, because it won’t make a difference. Only he can make a difference.”

She was utterly silent, unmoving. Castle stopped talking, and, awkwardly around her, sipped his wine to cover his silence.

“I can’t deal with it,” she whispered. “I can’t.”

“You don’t have to. You just have to wait. There’s nothing more you can do.”

“I _hate_ waiting,” she ground out. “I hate not being able to _do something_.”

“You did do something. You stopped rescuing him. That started this, Beckett. Your action, his reaction. You’ve – maybe, but it’s not up to you – set him on the path to salvation. If he saves himself, that’s his choice. If he doesn’t…well, that’s his choice too. But it’s _his_ choice to take it. Not yours. Never yours.” He took a breath. “It’s not your fault.”

She pressed her face into him, shivering, but still silent. Then – “But if I don’t do something to help, how will he know I support his decision?”

Castle waited.

“Oh. He doesn’t need to know. That’s what you’ve been writing and saying all along. He has to do it on his own, not because of me or anyone or anything. Because he has to make that decision because he _wants to do it for himself_.” She fell in against him again. “I get it. I hate it, but I get it. I did the _right_ thing.” She gasped in a breath. “Fuck, it hurts doing it.”

“You wouldn’t be human if it didn’t hurt.” He paused. “I guess you could be a sociopath. Or a psychopath. I can never remember which the one with no feelings is…” He stopped at her astonished gaze. “That was a thought that sounded better in my head.”

“Where it should probably have stayed.”

“No, I was saying that you weren’t one – whichever one you aren’t.”

“Are you suggesting that I’m the other one?”

“No! Wait, stop being mean to me. You can’t be mean to me when you’re curled up in my lap and we’ve got wine, candy and movies.”

Beckett managed a rather watery smile. “Gotcha,” she said, but it wobbled a little.

“Nope. I’ve got _you_ ,” Castle contradicted, and tightened his arms around her to prove it. “Now, what shall I do with you?”

“You could give me back my wine,” Beckett suggested. She felt quite badly in need of the drink.

“That’s refreshingly simple, though I was thinking of something equally simple and just as nice.”

“I bet,” Beckett muttered.

“Another movie, more popcorn – salty or sweet or some of each? – and snuggles. What sort of movie would you like? More anime, or action, or horror? Please don’t say rom-com?”

“Action. Lots of bad guys getting their just deserts, preferably permanently.”

“I have John Woo” – he was cut off.

“You do? Great, let’s have those.” She did love John Woo movies. _She_ might not be able to murder bad guys with impunity, but the fantasy had brightened a lot of dull days. “Have you got Hard Boiled?”

“Of course. I have almost all of them. We can watch as many as you like.” He slotted the DVD into place and returned to the couch. “Popcorn?”

“I’m happy with the candy,” she said, slipping away and retrieving all of the bowls, which she lined up within easy reach.

“You’re a candy fiend?” Castle said, surprised. “You look like you live on lettuce.”

“Nope. Ready meals, takeout and candy – plus lots of running and gym work, and yoga.”

Castle’s eyes lit up. “Yoga? I like yoga. Or at least,” he added, catching her quizzical glance, “I like watching other people do yoga. That sort of flexibility is amazing.”

“I’m flexible,” Beckett husked. “But you promised me a movie.”

“I’ll just make myself some popcorn and then we’ll have the movie.”

Beckett curled herself into the couch again, wine in hand, candy in reach, and nibbled and sipped while Castle swiftly made his popcorn and returned to cosseting her in. The movie began to play, and Beckett happily lost herself in the familiar plot and action scenes, enjoying them just as much as she had the very first time. Beside her, Castle was equally absorbed, cheerfully munching his popcorn and oohing and aahhing at each twist and turn.

When the movie finished, Beckett yawned widely and realised that, emotion driven tear-storms and sleeping half the afternoon notwithstanding, she was tired again. “I’d love to see another,” she replied to Castle’s suggestion of more, “but I don’t think I can stay awake. I shouldn’t be this tired,” she complained.

“Why not?”

“I’ve been asleep all afternoon, practically. How can I still be tired?”

“Adrenaline crash.”

“Uh?”

“You’ve been working at a higher level – didn’t you say you’d got to do more interviewing? – and you’ve been worrying about your father non-stop – and now you don’t have to worry any more so all the adrenaline that you’ve been producing to keep going has stopped – and so have you. So you’re tired.”

“I thought cortisol was the stress hormone,” she said, but it wasn’t convincing snark.

“It is. But adrenaline is the fight or flight one.” There was a third option, but she was almost asleep and that wouldn’t be any fun at all.

“Whatever,” she conceded.

“You can just go to bed, you know. You don’t have to stay up and be sociable.”

“You’re sociable enough for both of us.”

“Why doesn’t that sound like a compliment?”

“Experience?”

He laughed. “Mean. Possibly fair, but definitely mean. If you’re going to be like that, I’ll have to take strong measures.”

“Uh?”

“I’ll eat the candy.” He swiped the bowl of Reese’s Pieces, to a howl of outrage.

“Mine!” she squawked, and grabbed for them. Castle held the bowl out of her reach, but sadly she didn’t fall for the – admittedly teenage – ruse. “Cheat,” she sulked.

“You didn’t fall for it,” Castle sulked back.

“I’m not twelve.”

“I know,” he said in a very different tone. “Oh, I know.” He bent forward, put the candy bowl down, and carried on to catch her in and kiss her hard. 

Despite her exhaustion, Castle’s kiss was as inflammatory as every other time, and she responded just as hotly – but then he stopped, which was definitely not the plan.

“You’re exhausted,” he said. She would have argued, but it was stopped by a huge yawn. “I’d kiss you all night, but it’s _so_ unflattering if you fell asleep while I did.” He smiled. “The guest room’s all made up, but” – he wriggled, suddenly and unusually shy – “I’d really like it if you slept in my room. Promise no funny business – unless you start it, of course – but I think you could really use someone to hold you tonight.”

She stared at him. All that exited her open mouth was “Er-gleep?” which didn’t seem to improve the situation any amount at all.

“Where would you like to sleep?” he repeated slowly and clearly.

“There,” she answered, and pointed through the study to his bedroom door, lurching to upright. He took the line of most assistance, wrapped an arm around her waist and walked her there. “I could do it myself,” she muttered.

“Wouldn’t want you to get lost,” Castle said smoothly, left her just inside his bedroom door, and collected her neglected overnight bag. “Here you are.”

“Thanks,” she managed, hunted down her washbag, and went through to the en-suite to clean up before falling into Castle’s huge, and very comfortable, bed. She was asleep again almost before her lashes touched her cheeks. 

Castle, coming back to check that she had everything she needed, was rocked back on his heels by the sight of Beckett, sound asleep, tucked up in his bed, on his pillows, face smooth and utterly unstrained for possibly the first time since he’d met her. Sleep, he thought, was the best thing for her, and though his undisciplined hind-brain had plenty of other ideas, they could all wait until she wasn’t exhausted and wasn’t crashing and was able to enjoy them without let or hindrance.

He wandered back out to sip the remains of his wine, tidy up (which involved finishing the popcorn, but not the candy), and contemplate the happiness of his life. If he’d never found the diary, he would never have met Kate Beckett, and that, he felt, would have been tragic. On which note, he went to write distinctly non-tragic meetings of his new female character with a reporter who bore a remarkable resemblance to himself, until, much later, he slipped into bed and spooned himself around a soft, warm Beckett, who made a contented noise in her sleep and nestled into him.

Life was just plain perfect, Castle concluded as he drifted into sleep.

***

Castle’s sleep-soaked brain was prodded into wakefulness by a ringing phone, which wasn’t his. It took him a second to realise that it was probably Beckett’s, by which time she’d hit full awakening, found her phone and answered it.

“Beckett.” Short pause. “Hey, Lanie. Isn’t it a bit early for a Sunday morning?” Another small pause. “Uh…give me a few moments to think.”

“Beckett?” Castle asked, too sleepy to take care. A loud squawk emanated from the phone.

“Lanie!” Beckett gasped, and blushed. “I’ll call you back, okay?” She cut the call.

“Who was that?” Castle asked. “Who’s Lanie?”

Beckett sat back down, and took a moment to consider how best to describe Lanie. “Uh…she’s my friend,” she began. “She’s an ME.”

“Oooohhhhh,” Castle enthused. “I’ve never seen an autopsy. D’you think she’d let me watch? Can I meet her? I have _so_ many questions already and I’ve only known she existed for ten seconds.”

“I only got to know her properly three weeks ago.”

“So what’s she like? Thin and scholarly with glasses and all precise and correct?”

Beckett thought about Lanie Parrish, ME and human tsunami, and howled with laughter.

“What’d I say?” Castle complained indignantly.

“Uh…she’s not any of those. She’s…um…” Beckett failed to come up with a description that wasn’t totally incomplete or misleading. “Fun,” she ended up.

“Can I meet her?”

“I guess. I’ll ask her.” Beckett swallowed. “She wants to meet up this afternoon.”

Castle looked at her. “If you want to, why not?” He regarded her keenly. “You want to, but you don’t want to upset me by going when yesterday didn’t quite go like we planned? Why would I be upset? You’ve got friends, and you wanna see them. I’ve got friends too, and Alexis, and…well,” he admitted, “I could spend every minute with you right now but that wouldn’t be healthy and we’re not two teens” –

“Yep. Me too. What you said.” She kissed him. “How did you get that so fast?”

Castle squirmed uncomfortably. “Uh…writer, you know? I spend a lot of time working out motivations. I even took some psychology classes, and, well, I thought I needed to know about this stuff in case Alexis needs it even if she’s only nearly ten right now and, um, I didn’t want to be blindsided. But she doesn’t get to date till she’s twenty-one.”

Beckett grinned evilly. “Like that’s going to work.” Castle pouted. “Okay. I’ll call Lanie back in a bit.”

“Not now?”

“No. There’s someone I want to do first.” He was still catching up when she shoved him back down into the pillows and pinned him to the sheets with her body. Surprise held him there, though he could easily have rolled them over, and then she kissed him slow and deep and sure, scrabbled blindly in the nightstand and found protection, and then sank on to him.

They were still entangled when Castle heard noises outside his study. “Alexis is awake,” he said. “She won’t come in, but… I need to get up.”

“Can I shower?”

“Sure. I’ll make breakfast.”

Breakfast turned out to be substantial: cereal, waffles, bacon, fruit, orange juice and – of course – coffee. Well fed, well-watered and well-loved, Beckett sauntered home with a smooth sashaying stride, deeply contented with life. Around halfway, she remembered to call Lanie. That would be a good way to spend the afternoon, she thought.

Life was definitely looking up. From the dark days of a month previously, when everything had seemed lost, everything was going well. She called Lanie, arranged to meet for dinner, and swung home, perfectly happy with life.

***

At six, Beckett was in the relatively unfamiliar environment of a cocktail bar, wishing she’d put on a little more make-up. On the other hand, and for which she had not been wishing at all, she’d been here for less than ten minutes and four different men (and one woman) had approached her with varying degrees of chat up lines. The men had been despatched with one blistering reply each – honestly, could they not have been _original_? – and the woman with a polite advisement of not leaning that way. 

Fortunately, Lanie arrived marginally before Beckett started wishing for her gun.

“Why haven’t you got a drink yet?” she demanded. “Girl, you are just plain _slow_. You need to learn to have fun. Now stand up and hug me like friends do.” Beckett complied. From a distance, she could see the woman who’d approached her looking annoyed. It didn’t seem the moment to explain – “Why’s that blonde giving you evil looks?” Lanie quizzed.

“Uh…she wanted to join me.”

“So?”

“So I told her I didn’t swing that way” –

“Nope, you swing with that Richard Ca” –

“Shush!” Astonishingly, Lanie did. “But since you’re hugging me, I think she thinks I lied.”

“I could really give her something to give you evils about,” Lanie smirked – evilly.

“No, thank you. I don’t want a show.”

“You’re no fun.”

“Nope.”

“Though you look like you’ve been having fun. Did I interrupt something this morning?” The smirk moved to a leer. “Let’s get some drinks in, and you can tell me all about how it’s going.”

“Boundaries?” Beckett said hopefully.

“I deal with the dead. There are no boundaries.”

“I do too, but I still have boundaries.”

“Like I said, no fun. Let’s get cocktails and move some of those boundaries. Friends gotta share, you know.”

Beckett buried her head in the cocktail menu in an effort to hide her blushes, which hadn’t diminished when she ordered.

“Now,” Lanie said ominously, as the drinks arrived, “you still letting your dad go to hell in his own way? The right answer here, girl, is _yes_ , in case you didn’t realise.”

“He’s going to rehab.”

Lanie’s mouth opened, and slowly shut again. “He is? That’s great. No need to ask more, then. Good. I wanna know how you’re doing with that sexy boyfriend.”

“We’re doing okay,” Beckett said temperately – but then added a very sly, knowing smile, simply to annoy Lanie.

“So he’s moved on from being an _uh_?” Depressingly, Lanie was not annoyed, but curious, though curious was possibly too mild a word for her twitching nose and bright eyes. “Details! Stop beating around the bush, though I really hope he’s found yours” –

“Shut up, Lanie!” Beckett said desperately. She suddenly thought of a diversion. “He wants to meet you. He’s got questions about being an ME and he wants to watch an autopsy.”

Lanie, for the first time since Beckett had met her, was silenced. For all of twenty whole seconds. Beckett counted them.

“Richard Castle, bestselling author, wants to meet _me_? Hell, _yeah!_ When? Now? Call him and tell him to get that sexy butt down here – okay, so I’ve only seen it on TV and the gossip pages but it looked damn good there so it’s sure to be just as good for real – right now” –

“He’s got a daughter. He needs to look after her.”

Lanie’s over-excited face fell. “Not right now? Well, damn. That’s a disappointment.” She gulped down her cocktail, and ordered another round. “There’s only one solution. Booze and food. Comfort food.” She grabbed a menu and began to consider the comforting options of salt, fat, fried food and sugary desserts with cream.

Beckett regarded her friend’s downcast face. “I’ll text him now, and maybe I could bring him along to the morgue after shift when he comes to ask me all the questions about cop work?”

Lanie brightened up immediately. “Sure you can. Great idea.” She grinned. “But we’re still eating comfort food. You might be lean but I can’t carry you home when you’re that tall.”

“I’m not carrying you home either,” Beckett retorted. “I’ll find you a fireman.”

“Oooohhh, yes. One of those nice ones who do the calendar. They could do me _any_ time.”

After that, dinner dissolved into drinks and desserts, again.


	20. Chapter 20

Castle bounced up to Beckett’s desk on Monday practically panting with excitement. “Can we go see the ME now,” he whined. “I really wanna. You said we could.” He sounded like a five-year old asking if they could go to the circus.

“Yes, we can go. Just let me tidy up,” she said in a put-upon fashion.

“Don’t be like that. It’ll be fun.”

“It’s dead bodies. What’s fun about that?”

“Okay, _interesting_.”

“It’s messy.”

“Yeah? That doesn’t bother me. I write about murder all the time.”

“It’s not quite the same,” Beckett said, standing up.

“I have a very strong stomach,” Castle boasted. “This’ll be easy.”

Beckett looked sceptical. “Bet you throw up – or faint.”

“I won’t.”

“Bet you a box of chocolates if I win – really good chocolate.”

“And what if I win?”

“I’ll cook you a meal.”

“You’re on. But I’m going to win.”

They went down to the morgue, and as soon as they were inside Castle whipped out a small notebook and a pen and started to make scribbled notes. His gaze was everywhere, absorbing everything – he didn’t even talk, which was almost unprecedented in Beckett’s experience of him. If she’d been a little more fanciful, she’d have said that he was soaking up the atmosphere emanating from the walls. She steered him along to ME Parish’s room, during which time he said not one word.

“Hey, Lanie,” she said. “I brought you Mr Question Mark.”

“Hey!” Castle complained, and then got a good look at Lanie. “Wow,” he said. “You are absolutely not how I imagined an ME to be.”

“Oh?” she said, and ran an assessing gaze up and down him. “You’re not quite what I imagined either.” Her gaze moved up and down him again, and then obviously rested at his belt buckle. She turned to Beckett. “So this is the _uh_?”

“ _Uh_?” Castle squawked. “I’m an _uh_?”

“Just kidding,” Lanie added hurriedly, catching Beckett’s laser-intensity glare.

“I thought you wanted to ask questions?” she directed at Castle. “And you said you wanted to meet him,” she sent Lanie-ward.

“I always thought MEs were thin and cadaverous and horribly formal and patronising, but” – Castle suddenly seemed to realise that there wasn’t a good ending to that sentence, and stopped it short. 

“ _I_ always thought that thriller writers were over-compensating for short measure,” Lanie said innocently. Beckett spluttered and tried not to laugh.

“Oh, I never come up short,” Castle said, just as innocently. 

Beckett choked, and quietly disappeared into a handy door, which turned out to be a small office. From there – that being a safe distance – she watched the other two square up. The height difference was amusing, but Beckett was betting on Lanie. She, after all, had the scalpels and the bone saws.

“Really?” Lanie riposted. “That’s not what Page Six says.”

“I think you’re reading Page Six of Architectural Monthly, then.”

“I guess you read that to learn about erections?”

“Of buildings, sure. I guess you read Hustler to learn about anatomy?”

Beckett winced.

“Nah, I use it for the bra adverts.”

Castle guffawed. “Personally, I like the jockstrap adverts in Playgirl,” he grinned.

“I think I like you,” Lanie said. “Now, are you gonna take care of my pal? ‘Cause if not, I’ll come after you with my scalpels.”

“How long have you been friends?”

“Er,” Lanie counted up on her fingers. “About three weeks.”

Castle calculated on his own fingers. “I’ve known Beckett four weeks – so if you’re not nice to _my_ pal” –

“Girlfriend, from what I hear,” Lanie snipped –

“I’ll make sure everyone knows you’re the real life example of my next most hated character.”

“Wow, you play dirty.”

“And you don’t?”

“I really like you,” Lanie grinned. “Shame Kate found you first. I never poach.” Wisely, Castle didn’t say anything. “Now, she said you wanted to ask questions and watch an autopsy?”

“Yep,” Castle said happily. “Research.”

“Research? What for? Storm doesn’t spend time in morgues. He makes work for those of us who do.” Lanie fixed Castle with a viciously interrogative scowl. “So what are you researching?”

“Autopsies,” Castle said blandly. “Since they provide evidence.”

Lanie regarded Castle with extreme scepticism. “I don’t believe you, but you’re not going to talk, and since Kate’ll arrest me if I try persuading you I guess I’ll just have to wait.”

Beckett felt that this was an opportune moment to reappear. “Are you two finished sparring? I mean, I could happily leave you to it and go home for dinner, if you want to carry on.”

“Not required,” Lanie said. “We’re friends. Aren’t we?” Despite the wording, it didn’t sound like a question.

“Yes,” Castle agreed. “So when can I watch an autopsy?”

“Tomorrow. My shift finished twenty minutes ago and I wanna shower and eat.” She smirked. “And I guess you pair are going to go chat. Or something. Something a lot more fun than chatting, you know.”

“Is she for real?” Castle asked. “If I wrote her I’d get flamed for someone so totally without shame or boundaries.”

“Yep, she’s real.”

“Standing _right here_ ,” Lanie said, brandishing a fearsome implement.

“Leaving _right now_ ,” Castle squeaked, and fled.

Lanie blatantly eyed up Castle’s rear view. “He sure has a nice ass,” she assessed. “Bit of a smartass” –

“Like you weren’t?”

“Course not,” Lanie lied. “Anyway, I’d go grab that ass with both hands if I were you. Not that yours has much to grab. You need to eat more, girl, so’s he can find it.”

“Night, Lanie,” Beckett said firmly, and ran for it.

She eventually caught up with Castle outside the morgue, though he had a certain air of considering still fleeing.

“I didn’t faint or throw up,” Castle said smugly.

“You haven’t seen the autopsy yet, so it doesn’t count.”

“Dinner, then. Since my ultra-strong stomach” –

“Ultra-strong?” Beckett scoffed. “I’ve seen what you call a six-pack” –

“Mean. Anyway, since my stomach remains unchurned, let’s go to Remy’s and have dinner.”

“Okay. And then we could have coffee at mine and discuss your six-pack. And Architectural Monthly.”

Dinner didn’t take long, after that, and shortly they were almost at Beckett’s apartment.

“Coffee at yours?” Castle asked.

“Sure,” Beckett agreed, more than a little relieved that Lanie hadn’t become an obstacle.

“And you can explain to me what an _uh_ is,” he added mischievously, hugged her to show that he was kidding, and quickly added, “so that I can turn it into an _ohhhh Castle!_ ”

“You can try,” she snipped, as they entered the apartment.

“Oh, I think I can succeed,” Castle bragged. “Just you wait. If I do, you explain why Lanie called me an _uh_.”

“If you don’t, you explain why an autopsy is research,” Beckett countered.

“Okay,” Castle said, suddenly determined to win at all costs. He really didn’t want to explain – yet. He would, of course…later. A lot later. When his new character had her new book and he could show Beckett the whole thing. (though at the rate he was writing, his first draft would be done in a month)

He smiled very slowly and lazily. “C’mere,” he drawled, and drew her in, showing off a little strength, exerting just a little force. Her eyes gleamed as his arms tightened around her. “Caught you.”

“But can you keep me?” she flirted.

“You won’t want to leave.” One hand slid up her back to cup her skull and hold her head, the other stayed locked on her spine. He bent slowly, approaching her mouth, giving her time to anticipate his actions. Her pupils dilated, and a small pink tip of tongue wet her lips, parting them slightly, as he ghosted on to them: barely touching down, a flicker of his own tongue along the opening, but not entering; his lips passing on to touch down oh-so-lightly along her jaw, up to her cheekbone, across to her ear, finding the nerve that made her wriggle against him, pressed firmly against hot hard weight. This was his game now, and he intended to win.

Castle hadn’t been this forcefully _male_ before, but Beckett was not objecting. Oh, no. She _liked_ the way he was applying well-judged strength and possessive grip; his mouth was teasing, but his hands were firm and he knew exactly where to put them. She sank into the feeling, and let him do as he would, totally aroused by his size surrounding her, his evident excitement feeding hers, his avid lips nibbling seductively everywhere except her own mouth. She squirmed against him, searching for more, rolling into him.

“Impatient,” he murmured. “Just wait.” The smooth baritone seeped straight through her skin, and she surrendered to its seduction. “I’ll give you everything you want. Everything you need. Just wait.” His mouth moved over the fine skin over her jawbone, back towards her mouth, ghosting feather-light across her face, and then taking her mouth in one commanding invasion, conquering without a pause. His kiss was deep and hard, strong, sure and confident. He took everything she gave, and demanded more: more assertively masculine than he’d ever been; and she curved and softened and pressed closer, mewing in protest when he pushed her a little way back; sighing in satisfaction as clever fingers undid the buttons of her shirt; whimpering as he parted the fabric and kissed down over her collarbones into her cleavage; more teasing, butterfly kisses that wound her higher and left her wanting and needy, scalding heat collecting at her core. 

He smoothed the shirt from her shoulders, exposing pale cream skin and swelling breasts in black lace, bent to them and began to turn her into a melted, desperate mess of sensation. He’d been great before, but now she couldn’t think, could only feel, as he sucked and lipped and played, through the thin material of her bra, and then, flicking open its fastening, on naked skin and pert pink nipples, until her hands clutched on his shoulders and her knees wobbled; until she gave small moans and he grinned wolfishly against her curves and worked her higher, holding her close to hold her up, then picking her up and backing her against the wall to grind against her and he was hot and hard and huge, pushing between her legs, pressure where she needed him, his mouth returning to hers, tongue taking her mouth as she wanted his body to take hers and she was _so close_ as his hand slipped down and round to open her pants and slide within and cup her through thin cotton panties and rub and she exploded.

“That’s a good start,” Castle purred darkly into her ear. “Now let’s carry on.” Her pants dropped from her hips as he lifted her; her bare legs wrapped around his waist and her arms around his neck. “I think we’d both be much happier if you were naked in bed.”

“Okay,” she husked, drunk on sex already, completely unaware of anything outside his body and mouth and hands and fingers and the way he was, so easily, making her feel. She hadn’t seen, or hadn’t realised, that there was a broad, strong _man_ behind the flirting and childishness; and while their previous lovemaking had been intensely satisfying; this had moved to a whole other level, where Castle was assertively sure of himself and intent on ensuring that _she_ couldn’t remember her name.

Which was just _fine_ by her, as long as he didn’t _stop_.

He laid her down on the bed and stood back up, taking her panties with him, and raked her with a hot, navy-blue stare, surveying and claiming every inch of her. She flexed, and started to sit up, but he pushed her back against her pillows. “I want to look at you. All spread out and gorgeous and _all_ mine,” he growled, and it went straight to her overheated centre. He began to strip, not hurrying: shirt first, pecs and biceps flexing as his pants slid down, falling to the floor, socks gone; leaving him only in silk boxers which draped around the bulge of his erection and didn’t hide a thing.

“Now, where were we? Oh, yes. Turning _uh_ into _ohhhhh Castle!_ , I think.” He sat down on the bed, and traced one long, thick finger slowly downward from her clavicles, through the valley between her breasts, over her sternum, to her navel. She arched slightly to encourage him further. Happily, encouragement worked. The finger moved further at that same measured pace, allowing her to anticipate, leaving little prickles of hot arousal behind it: a gathering tide flooding and pooling at her core. It stopped, just at the edge of the soft curls of hair, for only long enough for Beckett to understand his next move. She squirmed, and opened further for him. His touch moved on, and she curved in want and helplessly overwhelming desire.

He touched the knot of sensitive nerves and she screamed.

“We’re only just getting started,” he rasped, and stroked again. She twisted, and he placed a broad palm on her hip bone to keep her in place for the delicate, erotic strokes. “Is that good? Shall I carry on?” She gasped, and whimpered. He stroked again, gliding through the soaked flesh, until she cried out an writhed and emitted formless, wanting noises. His hands were magical, and she was bespelled.

And then he smiled wickedly at her and began to use his mouth, still stroking over that one sensitive spot, keeping her close but not letting her fall, but when her noises resolved into his name he slipped two fingers into her and she cried out for him and shattered around his hand and mouth.

“I think that was an _ohhhhh Castle_ there,” he said smugly as he snuggled her in, rolled her to face him so he could kiss her and then held her close. “Several, in fact.” Beckett had rather hoped, when she recovered her senses, that he’d forgotten about that, but, like an elephant, it appeared that Castle never forgot anything. She braced herself.

“But that can wait,” he murmured, “because you’ve had all the fun and now it’s my turn.” She hadn’t quite caught up with that comment – _he’d_ been the one doing all the fun – when he rolled her on to her back, rose over her, pinning her hands by her ears, and (and when did he put on protection, she wondered, because it was there) plunged straight into her; strong and thick and long and hard and _wonderful_. She tugged her hands free and locked them on his neck, pulling him to her, opening for him to surge deeper and harder, faster, and his fingers flickered between them and she screamed his name into his hard kiss and came again with him.

“Definitely an _ohhhhh Castle_ ,” he breathed, “and I’ve got you here” – yep, she was draped over his chest and not going anywhere – not that she could have if she’d wanted to, because she was being quite firmly embraced – “and this seems like a really good time for you to explain what an _uh_ is when you described me.”

Beckett nuzzled into his chest, and didn’t answer.

“C’mon. You have to tell me. You lost the bet.”

“You’ve _met_ Lanie, and you have to ask?”

“Sure I do.”

Beckett grumbled inaudibly into that same broad chest.

“Didn’t get that,” Castle noted.

“Bully,” Beckett sulked.

“Yep. So what’s an _uh_ when it’s at home?”

“It’s what happens when Lanie doesn’t give you a chance to think.”

“That’s not an explanation,” Castle teased gently.

“It’s all you’re getting.” Beckett tried to turn away, and was carefully turned back and pulled up so that Castle could see her blushing face.

“As long as I’m an _uh_ not an _ugh_ , I’ll live.” Beckett said nothing at all, so Castle simply kissed her, slow and sure, a reassurance. “Come here,” he murmured, “come here and be cuddled.” She eased against him, and he held her, petting. “No need to worry or fret. As long as you get that I’m not an _uh_ any more, I’m your boyfriend.”

“Uh? _Boyfriend_?”

“Well, lover, significant other, partner. It’s a bit early for fiancée or husband, I think,” he teased.

“That’s ridiculous!” Beckett exclaimed, sitting bolt upright. “I’ve known you a month. That’s not long enough to decide what you’re like to date, never mind anything else.”

Castle smiled. “So you agree we’re definitely dating?”

“Haven’t we had this conversation?”

“Yeah, but you didn’t actually ever agree that we’re dating, you only implied it.” His smile turned soulful. “I’m insecure, you see. If you don’t agree, I’ll always be nervous that you don’t like me.”

“Insecure? You?” Beckett snorted. “You’re about as insecure as a mountain – and your ego’s about the same size.”

“I didn’t hear you complaining about my size a few minutes ago,” Castle pointed out lazily. “Definitely not complaining. But are we _dating_?” he added, pouting pathetically. “I wanna be sure that you agree.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake. _Yes,_ okay, we’re dating. Now will you stop pretending you’re insecure and messing around?”

“I like messing around with you. You make such delightfully sexy noises when I mess around with you.” He grinned. “Can I mess around some more? Or even better, you could mess around with me.” He lay back and spread his arms wide. “I’m totally at your disposal.”

“You are?” she purred, sex slithering through her sultry tones, and gave a feline, knowing smile. “That’s good to know.” He sprang to life simply from her voice and the look in her eyes.

And then she glided down his legs and bent at the waist and he stopped thinking altogether as she proved beyond any shadow of a doubt that her mouth and tongue were just as talented as his.

Still later, they remained cuddled together, quiet and contented, almost asleep.

“You fit just right against me,” Castle mused, which thought he had meant to keep inside his head where it belonged. 

Amazingly, Beckett didn’t produce a sardonic reply. Instead, she nestled closer. “Feels good,” she muzzed, and Castle understood that she was nine-tenths asleep.

“It does,” he agreed. It really, really did. Had it really only been a month? He felt as if he’d known her for ever, and yet…it had only been a month. But still, she’d agreed that they were dating, and a nagging doubt had lifted from his heart. Even though she’d turned down Detective-don’t-you-hit-on- _my_ -girl-you-badge-bearing-bastard-Demming, he’d still worried, just a tiny, silly, unjustified worry, that she’d reject him. It was dumb. She was only twenty-four, and he was ten years past that – though she felt much older, force-grown in the fierce agony of her father’s alcoholism. He could give her everything –

But she didn’t want everything, or anything. She’d been scared he’d take her to some high-class restaurant: she liked Remy’s, or the bistro, or takeout. She didn’t invite flowers, though she’d loved them when he’d sent them, or presents, or even chocolate. She didn’t try to ingratiate herself with Alexis – in fact, she was downright nervous about being near her, and it wasn’t _all_ unfamiliarity with small children. She had been careful around his mother, too, though that was basic self-preservation. His mother had fewer boundaries than Dr Lanie Parish, who had next to none, even on first acquaintance. 

It was odd, he mused sleepily, that Beckett and Lanie were friends. Total opposites – but maybe that was why. Beckett needed a foil. As doze turned to sleep, a character based on Lanie began to form in his unconscious mind.


	21. Chapter 21

“I’m going to see an autopsy,” Castle sang to himself in his study.

“What’s an autopsy, Daddy?”

“Why, darling?” asked his mother. “Is this to impress that nice detective?”

“Research,” he said briskly, hoping his mother would leave. “An autopsy is where a doctor finds out why someone died,” he directed at Alexis.

“Research?”

“Yes.” Questions, especially in front of Alexis, were unwelcome.

“Could I see one?”

“I don’t think you’d like it,” Castle said to his daughter. “It’s not for children.” When he used a certain tone, as now, Alexis didn’t argue. He didn’t often put his foot down, but when he did, that was final.

“Okay,” she conceded. “But will you be home before my bedtime and tell me about it?”

“And do bring your detective, darling. She seemed nice. I’d love to get to know her.”

Just what Castle didn’t want. “I’ll ask her,” he said. “But she might be busy.”

“I’m sure you can persuade her,” his mother said. “Use some of that famous charm of yours. It wouldn’t hurt to practice.” 

Castle scowled. “Thank you, Mother. On that note, I have to go.” He hugged Alexis. “I’ll be back before bedtime,” he said. “Look after Grams.”

The sound of his mother spluttering as he left was exceedingly satisfying.

***

The morgue exuded chill quiet, and a business-like calm which didn’t approach reverence but didn’t encourage frivolity. Castle was duly suppressed, and proceeded to Lanie’s office without fuss or bustle.

“Didn’t you bring Kate?” she asked.

“No. Was I supposed to? I expected her to meet me here.”

“Not if you don’t want to, but I’m going to tell her you’re here already. I don’t want to be on the wrong end of her.”

“I got the impression you didn’t much care about that.”

“ _I_ got the impression that she respected people who stood their ground. I also got the impression that she’s more into you than she told me, so I’m not doing anything that she thinks is behind her back.” She tapped out a text, and looked quizzically at him. “If I were you, I’d tell her I was here myself.”

Castle pulled out his phone and tapped Beckett’s number. “Hey, it’s me. I’m at the morgue.”

“On the way. Don’t wait for me. I’ve seen autopsies before.”

“Bye.”

Lanie smiled approvingly. “Now, let’s go chop this corpse,” she said, and led the way to a slab. “Here we are. We’ll take it from the top. He’s fresh, so you’ll get to see everything.”

“Great.”

“And while you’re watching, you can tell me just why Richard Castle, best-seller and wannabe A-list celebrity” –

“Ouch” –

“You’re getting there, but you’re not there yet, are you?” He scowled. “Nope. So how did you fall over Kate?”

“I needed a cop to answer some questions for Storm, and Roy Montgomery sent me her way.” It had the crucial advantage of being true, if considerably incomplete.

“Storm’s a renegade. A spy, if anything. Why aren’t you down at Langley, rather than pestering the cops?”

“I don’t _pester_!” Castle replied.

“Not answering the question, there. There’s more to it than Storm, isn’t there? Did you lean on Montgomery just to get to Kate?”

“No.” Which was not at all true, except that he hadn’t known it was Beckett (he just could not think of her as Kate) when he leant on Roy.

Lanie regarded him inquisitively: her nose almost twitching. “I smell a story,” she probed.

“Are you going to start the autopsy?”

“Diversion, but yes.” She opened the body bag. “Here’s our corpse.” Castle tried very hard not to breathe. The smell was disgusting. He felt a first faint squirm in his stomach, but ignored it. He could get through this, no problem.

“First I do a visual exam,” she began, and carried it out. “Now, you and Kate. She blushes like a boiled lobster every time I ask her, so I’m guessing that tearing up the sheets isn’t a problem for you, not that she actually says anything. That girl oughta share more,” she muttered.

“If she won’t, I won’t.”

“That smug smile says you’re having a lot of fun.”

“How is this your business?”

“She’s my friend. Friends look out for each other.”

“She was my friend first,” Castle said childishly. “And we already had this discussion, so _butt out_.”

Clapping arose from the doorway. “He’s right. Butt out, Lanie.”

Somewhat to Castle’s surprise, Lanie conceded. “Aw, okay. But if he’s not good to you, I got plenty of solutions.”

“And I’ve got a Glock, so I think I can take care of myself.”

“Standing right here,” Castle said, and received twin-track glares.

“I thought you were showing him an autopsy?” Beckett asked.

“I am. Gee, you sure can do intimidation when you wanna, girl. That glare would melt rock.”

“Will it make you butt out?”

“Maybe. I’m guessing he’s not an _uh_ any more, though?”

“Lanie, what part of _butt out_ didn’t you understand? Now get on with the autopsy ‘cause there’s chocolate on the line.”

“Chocolate?”

“If Castle faints or vomits he buys me the best chocolate you can get.”

“What if he doesn’t?”

“I cook him a meal.”

“I don’t know whose side to take here,” Lanie mused.

“Mine!” Beckett insisted. “You’re my friend.”

“Mine,” Castle oozed. “I can give you chocolate too.”

Lanie looked between them. “Friendship or chocolate? Nope, not getting involved here.”

“That’s got to be a first,” Beckett muttered blackly.

“So let’s autopsy.” She poised her scalpel, and began the Y-cut.

Castle did just fine with the heart and lungs. He coped with the stomach contents, and the extraction of fluids from the liver. He was profoundly interested when the skull was opened and the brain removed. But when Lanie put a needle into the eye to draw out fluid from there, his calm broke, and the next thing the two women heard was him crashing out of the door down the corridor to the lavatory.

Beckett high-fived Lanie. “I told him so,” she gloated in a most unseemly manner. “I told him so.”

It took a few minutes before Castle returned, looking rather green about the gills. “You win,” he said, remarkably gracefully. “Any sort of chocolate you don’t like?”

Beckett stared at him. Chocolate that she didn’t like? The concept had never crossed her mind. “No,” she said. 

“That’s okay, then. You shall have your chocolate tomorrow.” Castle took several deep breaths, and carefully didn’t look at the corpse or the vials of fluids. “Can we go now?”

Lanie looked sympathetically at him. “It’s never as bad the second time,” she said. “You can come back and ask me questions any time.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Beckett patted him on the shoulder: a nice blend of comforting and patronising. “Let’s go.” When they were out of the autopsy room, she twined fingers into his. “It’s a bit of a shock, isn’t it? You think you’re prepared, but you aren’t really. It’s so clinical and cold.”

Castle took a few steps in silence. Then, “I promised to be home and tell Alexis about the autopsy before bedtime. Uh…would you come back and have dinner with me at home?”

She stopped dead. “Dinner?”

“A meal taken in the evening – here, at least. Some places it’s lunch.”

“This is relevant to what?”

“Nothing. So why not come to dinner? Though I have to tell you that Mother is home and she wants to” – his fingers made air quotes – “get to know you.”

“She what?”

“She wants to get to know you.”

“Your mother wants to _vet me_ like you were twelve?”

“I don’t know. She’s only been back two minutes and she’s trying to meddle in my life already.”

“Mother knows best?”

“She thinks so.”

Beckett had a thought. “How did you get on with the information about theft?”

“Oh – good. I passed it on to my PI, and he’s looking into it.” He stopped walking, and turned to her. “Please will you come back for dinner? To protect me from Mother, if nothing else.”

She really didn’t want to. Meeting Castle’s mother the first time hadn’t exactly encouraged her to do it again, and Lanie’s behaviour was quite enough boundary-trampling for one day. On the other hand, Lanie was her friend – and just how that had happened so damn quickly Beckett’s ingrained cynicism and downright paranoia had no idea – but Castle’s mother wasn’t even much of an acquaintance, and she could deflect any intrusive questioning. And she’d won the bet, so she was feeling unusually conciliatory.

“Okay. Do I need body armour?”

“No, but you might try noise-cancelling headphones. Mother can get a bit loud, especially after a glass or four of wine.”

Wine? His mother drank that much? She didn’t want to meet _another_ alcoholic parent.

Castle flicked a glance at Beckett’s sudden rigidity. “No, she doesn’t overdo it. She never drinks when she’s got a part or trying for one,” he said reassuringly, “and although I don’t think much of some of her parts she’s pretty constantly in work or auditioning. Anyway, we’re home.”

They stepped in.

“Daddy, you’re home!” Alexis squeaked. “You promised to tell me about the autopsy.” Beckett blinked.

“I did. First, though, are you all ready for bedtime?”

“Yes. See, pyjamas,” she said, in an _are-you-blind_ tone.

“Really? I thought it was a party dress.”

“You’re silly.”

“And you’re ten, and it’s bedtime. Up you go – have you brushed your teeth?”

“Yes, and my hair, and _now_ will you tell me about the autopsy?”

“Okay. Just let me get Detective Beckett a drink.” Castle turned to Beckett. “Coffee? Wine?”

“Coffee, please.”

Castle quickly set the machine to produce coffee, and shooed Alexis upstairs. “Back soon,” he said.

Beckett took her coffee from the machine and settled herself comfortably in a corner of the couch, where she was, deliberately, less than obvious. Castle’s mother hadn’t been in evidence when they entered, and Beckett wasn’t inclined to change that.

Sadly, Castle’s mother was inclined to change that. “Darling,” she was calling as she swished down the stairs, “why didn’t you tell me you were home? Did you bring that lovely detective with you? She’s really far too good for you, but there’s no accounting for taste, I suppose.”

Beckett bristled. She had perfectly good taste. What wasn’t there to like about Castle? Tall, broad, good-looking, and so hot she scorched standing next to him. _And_ – which she absolutely wasn’t going to discuss with his _mother_ – truly excellent in bed. More importantly, he _understood_. One way or another, his words scribbled in her diary had pulled her out of her despondency.

The swish continued down the stairs, with a certain air of satisfaction. Castle’s mother hove into view – not that Beckett could have missed her, since her outfit would have outshone Times Square at Christmas – bearing much the same over-exuberant decoration as would the largest of Christmas trees, squeezed into a much smaller space. She clearly subscribed to the more is more theory of decoration and personal adornment. Beckett, in plain dark pants and shirt, felt like a sparrow beside a peacock.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “You did come. I’m so glad. I didn’t really get the opportunity to talk to you last time but Richard will be occupied with Alexis for a while – he’s a good father, if nothing else – and we can have a nice girls’ chat.”

Beckett preserved a bland face and murmured something that could have been taken for pleasant assent without too much difficulty.

“I’m Martha Rodgers,” she announced, again. Hadn’t they done that the first time? “Do call me Martha, darling. Mrs Rodgers makes me feel old, and let me tell you, I don’t need that in my life. I shall never be old.”

“Okay,” Beckett agreed. It cost her nothing to be polite, and – no doubt assisted by make-up and hair dye, though Alexis’s red hair was the same tone as Martha’s which argued that the red had originally been natural – Martha didn’t seem nearly as old as the mother of a –

Well, now. How old was Castle? She parked that: she’d look it up later. Older than she, certainly, but how much?

“Tell me all about _you_ , darling. What’s your given name?”

“Kate.”

“Katherine, I presume?” Beckett nodded. “I shall call you Katherine. Such a regal and dignified name. How on earth did my son find you?”

“My Captain assigned him to me to answer his questions about investigative procedures.”

“How delightfully random,” Martha said. “Trust Richard to fall on his feet. Didn’t you mind?”

“Not at all,” Beckett said, entirely disingenuously. “Anything that makes me think carefully about how we investigate is helpful.”

Martha looked a touch nonplussed. “So it’s just a work thing?”

“We’re friends,” Beckett said, and with a hint of malice, “Castle’s a nice guy and good company.” She instantly realised that had been a mistake.

“Oh, that’s wonderful. Friends, mmm? How lovely.” Martha obviously thought _friends_ was a euphemism. She was right, but Beckett wasn’t going there. “Now, have you always lived in Manhattan? Are your parents still here? What do they do? How long have you been a detective? How old are you?”

Beckett seized on the last on as an easy and painless question. “Twenty-four.”

Martha’s eyes widened. “You’re a mere baby. How fabulous to be twenty-four with the world at your feet. My dear, why on earth are you letting Richard hang around you when you should be blazing a trail through Manhattan, with young men swooning in your wake. Of course,” she surveyed Beckett’s plain clothing, “you would need to wear something a little more enticing, but you could break hearts left, right and centre.”

“I’m quite happy as I am,” Beckett said coolly, wanting to say _if it means dressing like a neon light tube on a night out clubbing with its pals I think I’ll pass_. Fortunately, Castle’s tread started descending the stairs before her self-control expired.

“Ah, Richard. Your lovely detective is only twenty-four.”

“I thought it was rude to mention a woman’s age – or is that just yours?”

Martha huffed. “You’re cradle-robbing.”

“Hardly, but since some of your escorts look as if they’ve been robbed from the nearest grave, I don’t think you can talk.”

“How rude!”

“You started it, Mother. Now, are you going out tonight or are you staying in?”

“Out, of course. I have an important appointment with a producer.”

“Good luck.” Castle hugged his mother, somewhat to Beckett’s surprise. The way they’d been sniping at each other, she’d expected chilly farewells. Martha sashayed out, and a palpable air of relief descended.

“You got your coffee?” Beckett waggled the cup. “Great. I think I need one. Or possibly Scotch. I do love Mother, but she has no boundaries at all. She’s worse than your Lanie.”

“How old are you?” Beckett asked idly.

“Uh…thirty-four.” Panic spread across his face. “Don’t tell me that’s a problem _now_? You’re going to tell me you don’t date older men or you think that’s too much of an age gap or” –

“Stop. If it had mattered I’d have looked it up earlier.”

Castle subsided in a cloud of _phew_ , and sat down beside her, his thoughts of coffee forgotten. “You’re okay with it?”

“I just said so.” She smiled naughtily. “All that extra experience…”

“I could put it to good use…” he insinuated, and took her coffee cup from her hand, setting it on the table. “You’d finished anyway,” he murmured at her offended _humph_. “C’mere.” She didn’t seem to have much choice in the matter, since he’d already gathered her in, tipped her chin up with a gently forceful forefinger, and descended on her mouth. In Pavlovian reaction, her lips had already parted for him, and her hands moved to his neck. Shortly, without any input from her, she was in his lap, and shortly after _that_ , kissing was accompanied by some extremely heavy petting.

Both flushed and panting, they pulled apart.

“Uh,” Castle managed, which was just about the level of thought Beckett could manage. “Bedroom?”

“’kay.”

They stumbled to the bedroom, hampered by falling pants and tangled sleeves of shirts, and fell on to the bed with frantic kisses and busy hands, stripping off each other’s remaining clothes, a fast search for protection and then a faster coming together and hard release.

Castle looked down at the Beckett sprawled across him, crossed his arms over her to keep her there and safe with him, and closed his eyes.

He jerked into wakefulness when Beckett sat bolt upright and disarranged his delightful snuggly bundle. “Come back,” he said muzzily. “’S not morning.”

“I gotta go,” she panicked. “I don’t have a change of clothes and I’m on shift tomorrow so I have to go _now._ ”

“Don’ go. Stay. Wan’ you here with me.”

“I won’t be if I get fired. I have to get home.”

Castle’s bleary brain wobbled into some form of action. “’Kay. Get you a car.” He focused enough to tap the number and request a town car to take her home. “Wish you could stay.”

She kissed him in between donning her bra and shirt. “Yeah.” More kisses. “Night.”

“Till tomorrow,” he said, and kissed her in a way that would ensure she couldn’t forget him.

Beckett half-dozed in the car home, grateful for the consideration that had meant she needn’t go out in the small hours to find a taxi. She’d fallen asleep as fast as a tired toddler: safe and warm and somehow comforted by the presence of Castle’s big body and enclosing arms. She missed them already. They’d stopped her thinking about her father’s decision – truthfully, Castle’s arms and body simply stopped her thinking, reducing her to simple desire and outright lust. She fell into bed and dreamed of Castle, waking enough before her alarm to have some time before she needed to leave for work.

_Dear Diary. A month ago everything had gone to hell. Now Dad’s gone to rehab – at least, he says he has, and why would he bother lying about it? He sure didn’t care about being drunk all the time, so maybe I can believe him. And there’s Castle. He’s made everything better. Starting with writing in here, when I didn’t even know it was him. I should be worried how it’s all moving so fast, but it’s so good I can’t even be cynical. Even work is going well. I get to do more, now – even some interrogations. It’s all going the right way._

_How long will it last before something goes wrong again?_

_I shouldn’t think like that, but my life’s been in the pan for so long that it’s difficult to believe that anything good can hang around. I guess I just need to take it one day at a time, and hope that it does continue._


	22. Chapter 22

Beckett was sent out on a new case that same day, following her lead detective. She followed instructions exactly, and by late afternoon, they’d found a good lead, largely because they’d worked in parallel. She was pretty pleased about that: it meant that she was no longer being supervised every minute of every task. Progress in the job that she loved.

Their warrant came through without a problem – another win: she’d done it all and only had it quickly checked by the lead – and they went off to follow up their suspicions by way of a search of the suspect’s apartment for both a gun and some rather nasty chemicals. They took along some nice big burly uniforms, in case of trouble, and knocked, identifying themselves.

At that point the shit hit the fan – or more accurately, the bullets went right through the flimsy front door from the apartment behind it. The uniforms dived for cover, Beckett and Pawlowitz stayed firmly on each side of the door. One of the uniforms called for back-up.

“Ask for backup to cover the fire escape,” Beckett said, “Or you go down, now. Make sure he can’t sneak out.”

“Good thought,” Pawlowitz agreed. “Okay. We’re gonna have to break the door – what’s left of it. You go high. Vest tight?”

“Yep.”

“On my signal.” He raised his hand with three fingers extended, counted down silently. “Three…two…one” – they hit the door together, guns raised, and it tore like perforated paper. She saw him, aiming straight at them: time seemed to slow and she could see his finger tighten on the trigger: she went left, Pawlowitz right; the perp followed Pawlowitz and she caught Pawlowitz’s eye and he nodded and she fired.

She hadn’t hesitated for an instant when Pawlowitz nodded, and there the perp was, dead on the floor. She stared at the body.

“Beckett?” Pawlowitz said. “Beckett, you did good.” He took a good look at her. “Was that your first shooting?”

She nodded. She couldn’t speak. “Okay. Look, procedure says we need to call the Captain and report this. They’ll take it from there, but we need to get the team out. They’ll take your gun. Then we can get you back to the precinct so you can write up your report – you have to have a breathalyser test, too.” He made the call. “After we’ve got through the process, you’ll be on three days admin duty.” She was white. “It’ll be okay. He was about to shoot me. You did good. Now sit down there on the floor. We can’t do anything more till they turn up.” He smiled a little ruefully. “We can’t even execute the search warrant.”

“Shall we play I-Spy?” Beckett said weakly. She wanted to throw up, but rigorously controlled her stomach.

Pawlowitz laughed. “That’s it, Beckett. You’ll do. No reason we can’t look around, as long as we touch nothing. We can’t disturb the scene.”

The shooting team took possession of Beckett’s gun, secured the scene, and generally did (so Pawlowitz reassured her) everything they normally did. Pawlowitz took her back to the precinct where the breathalyser test was administered – stone cold sober – and then dismissed her to go home and rest, telling her he’d make it okay with Montgomery so that she shouldn’t come in the next day; he’d text her to confirm. She left, still just about holding it together.

By the time she got home she was shaking, and the sheer enormity of her act had landed. She ran for her toilet, and threw up till she half-expected to see her stomach lining in the bowl. She’d _killed_ a man. Lawfully and on duty – but she’d _killed someone_. She retched again, acid and painful.

Finally, she staggered out to her couch, and fell on to it. She couldn’t contemplate dinner, and she _wouldn’t_ drink to blot out the memory of blood spreading on the perpetrator’s chest, his eyes dulling in death, body lax.

Her phone cheeped with a text. Expecting it to be Pawlowitz, she checked, and found it to be from Castle. _They said you were out on a hot case. Call if you get time. RC_. Suddenly, all she wanted was Castle’s large, comforting presence. She texted back _Can I come over?_ He wouldn’t be able to leave his daughter: although she didn’t want to have to move, if she wanted him, she’d have to go there. The reply was almost immediate. _Sure._

 _On the way_ , she sent, and left, taking with her a small bag containing her wash kit and a change of clothes. She caught a cab, too shaken to drive safely, too shaken to take the subway. The doorman gave her a friendly wave, which she just about managed to return; she leaned, drained, against the elevator wall, and finally knocked on Castle’s door, almost on the point of tears.

“Hey,” he said, and then – “What the hell happened to you? You look _dreadful_.” She fell against him.

“I killed someone,” she said, and he caught her as she finally collapsed.

Castle didn’t waste time or energy on the thousand questions in his brain, but simply half-hauled Beckett to the couch, tucked her into the corner, and then found a cosy blanket to wrap around her shivering form while he made her hot, sweet tea. She was obviously in shock, still – this must have happened hours ago, but if he knew his Beckett, she’d bottled it up until she’d reached him and now the whole thing was crashing down over her. 

He put the tea into her hand and left his fingers curled over hers: scared she’d let it fall. “Drink it,” he said. “You’re in shock.” 

She shook her head, but she drank. “Can’t be in shock. It was hours ago.”

“You’re sheet white, you’re shivering, and you look like a truck hit you. Drink the tea, and snuggle in. I’ve got you.” He slung a warm arm around her shoulders, and kept her nestled into his side as she drank all of the tea. He saw, with considerable relief, that she was less pallid, though she still shivered. He pulled the blanket closer around her and stayed close. “Wanna talk about it?” he asked gently, “or do you just want to stay quiet?”

“I shot him,” she wavered. “I didn’t hesitate. Pawlowitz gave me the nod and he was going to shoot him” – Castle translated the muddled pronouns to mean that the dead man would have shot this Pawlowitz – “so I had to shoot and then he was dead and the blood ran on to the floor from his mouth and it wasn’t like the movies at all.” She hid her face in his shirt. “I _killed_ him.” She dragged in breath. “I never killed anyone before and most cops never do and _why me_? I didn’t want to kill anyone and I just _shot him_ _dead_ without even blinking.”

“He was going to kill your partner.”

“He’d already tried. He shot through the door at us.”

Castle’s blood drained. “He shot at you? Are you okay? You’re not hurt, are you?”

“No, none of us were hurt but he had his gun pointed at Pawlowitz and was going – I could see him pulling back the trigger like it was in slow motion and I just shot him. And then the shooting team came and they took my gun and I had to do a report and then I went home and saw your text.”

“And you came here,” Castle said.

“I just wanted you,” she admitted, though Castle thought she hadn’t meant to say so out loud. “You’re safe.” 

On balance, that was flattering, Castle supposed – and then realised that with a murdered mother and hopelessly alcoholic father, Beckett didn’t have a safe place outside herself. Definitely flattering, then. He cuddled her, and didn’t try to talk for a while.

“Do you want to have dinner?” he asked. “I had something with Alexis, but I could make you something now.”

“No, thank you.” She gulped. “It wouldn’t stay put.”

“Okay. More tea? I don’t think coffee would be a great idea right now.”

“Please.” She sounded utterly pathetic. Castle rose to make it, trying to process this miserable, unsure Beckett. He’d have thought that cops would be used to shooting: after all, they trained for it, and had to qualify…

But not on live targets. There was the crucial difference. She’d shot a living man, and then watched the life that she had taken drain from his body. He couldn’t comprehend that: all his extensive imagination unable to show him how it would actually feel to commit so final, fatal an act.

He brought the tea back, along with a coffee for himself, and watched as she sipped: a faint trace of colour returning to her lips and cheeks, though her eyes were haunted. She checked her phone, and breathed out relief.

“I don’t have to go into work tomorrow.” She hesitated. “Please…I don’t want to be alone in my apartment tonight,” she rushed out. “Please can I stay here? I’ll happily sleep on the couch just so long as I’m not on my own.”

“Don’t be silly,” Castle said softly. “You can sleep in my bed with me, and be easy. I’ll be there if the nightmares come.”

“You sure?” She flopped against him. “Yes, please.”

“Yeah, I’m sure. For now, just stay here next to me, and relax.”

“I wouldn’t sleep now anyway. I keep seeing him fall…” She faded out. Castle hugged, and placed delicate little pats on her shoulder, subtly encouraging her to come closer. 

“If you want to talk it out of your head, talk. If you don’t, don’t. If you wanna write it out – like as if it was your diary – I’ll find you a pen and paper and you can write – promise I won’t read it. You can even use my desk.”

“Write it out?” she repeated, dazed by the sheer simplicity of the idea. “As if I had my diary?”

“Just like as if you had your diary.”

“Yes,” she said, sitting straight up. “Yes. Let’s try that. I need to get him out of my head.”

Castle thought that in other circumstances, he could have emptied her head quite effectively, but she still looked half dead herself, and it didn’t seem appropriate. “I’ll find you something to write on,” he said, and bounced up to search out paper and pen. He ushered Beckett into his study, settled her at the desk, and went to make coffee for them both.

Having made and supplied coffee, Castle ensconced himself in an armchair and, Beckett being oblivious to everything except the scritch of her pen on the paper, thought his way through the differences between how Storm would react to shooting an opponent, and how his new detective would, totally informed by Beckett’s shocked state. He started to scribble himself, and was almost immediately lost in his own creativity.

 _Dear Diary_ , Beckett wrote on the pad of paper. _Today I shot a perp._ She stared at the blunt, cold words. _It wasn’t how I expected. I thought it would be like training, where you just get on and do it, and that’s the end of it. Move on, solve the next crime._

_It’s not like that at all when it’s real. It’s much, much worse. Seeing the light in his eyes going out and him falling, dead…and then the blood from his mouth. It’s not like the shows or the movies. It’s just…not. I never expected to be so affected. I thought if it was a criminal I…wouldn’t. I’d be okay because it was duty. Right. Legal._

_Fuck, no. Death is…horrible. Even if I’m in the right, it’s killing. I don’t ever want to get used to it. I hope I never have to do it again – but if I do, I don’t want to be able to brush it off like it was nothing. It’s not nothing. It can’t be nothing._

She looked up. Castle was scrawling at breakneck speed in a small notebook, balanced cross-wise in an armchair with his legs dangling over the arm. He hadn’t noticed her movement, and she watched him for a moment or two, a lock of floppy hair on his forehead, being brushed back with a quick flick of irritation, the pages turning and the black scrawl filling them.

“You’re writing,” she said stupidly.

“Yeah. It’s my new character,” he said – and then sat up straight. “Did it work?”

“New character?”

“Never shot anyone before.”

It took her longer than it should have to catch on. “You’re using _my_ reactions for a character?”

“They won’t be your reactions, though. They’ll be theirs.” Some small shred of self-preservation grabbed his brain through his writing haze. “It’s not like copying you. It’s just…coloration. If I wanted to copy you I’d read what you just wrote, but I won’t, because… well, it’s _personal_.”

“You read my diary.”

“Before I knew it was yours.” 

She nodded, conceding that point. “I don’t want to be a character,” she said.

“I know.”

She yawned. “I think I could sleep now,” she said, looking at her watch. “It’s past ten. Can I wash up?”

“Sure. My wonderful shower is at your disposal, as are my thousand thread-count sheets and the most comfortable bed in the world.” He leered. “I’ll even wash your back, if you like?”

“I don’t think that would get me to sleep,” she managed with a semblance of her usual snark.

“Probably not, but you’d enjoy it.”

She didn’t dignify his flirting with an answer, but went through his bedroom, tucked her writings into her bag, and continued on to the en-suite, where she stopped. She hadn’t remembered that, but… 

“Castle? Could I run myself a bath?”

“Sure.”

A bath would soothe her further. She always had a bath at the end of a really stressful time, and this surely qualified. She began to run the water, spotted some muscle relaxant, and despite its masculine fragrance, added a good-sized slosh. It smelled deliciously like Castle. She slipped into the hot water, thinking vaguely that she shouldn’t fall asleep in the bath. Her toes just nicely reached to the other end, balancing her; she rested, collarbone deep, warmed right the way through and finally feeling better.

“Beckett, Beckett!” No. Stop shaking her. She was lovely and warm and cosy and comfortable and just leave her be. “Beckett, you’re asleep in the bath.” She was hauled out, which she did _not_ appreciate, but then wrapped in a huge, warm, fluffy towel, which was nicer. “You can’t sleep in the bath. You’ll drown, or when it goes cold you’ll get chilled and hypothermia and freeze and then you’ll be ice-Beckett which would be no fun at all.”

“Wouldn’t,” she grumped. “Wasn’t asleep.”

“ _If_ you weren’t,” Castle said, with an intonation that made it perfectly plain that he thought she had been sound asleep, “then you were about to be, and it all still applies. Now get yourself dry, and then hop into bed where it’s comfortable and just as warm and cosy.”

“Okay,” she drooped.

Castle left her to dry herself and get ready for bed, and returned when he heard the noise of someone slipping into sheets. “Fixed up?” he asked, and when she nodded, smiled. “I’ll be there in a few minutes. Snuggle down.”

He briefly washed up and got ready for bed, pulling on a pair of pyjama pants but leaving his chest bare. If Beckett didn’t think of it for herself, he had an idea that might keep any nightmares (he was fully prepared for nightmares, which was why she was sleeping in his bed not the guest room or, heaven and Castle forbid, the couch) at bay.

He took the precaution of taking his laptop and a book to the bedroom with him: he wouldn’t normally sleep till much later, but the chance of snuggling in bed with Beckett was absolutely not to be missed. He didn’t have to sleep. Nor did she, of course, but he thought she would. She was already curled down among the pillows, though her eyes were open. 

He slid in. Immediately, she wriggled over to him and dropped her head on his chest. He made a questioning noise.

“I can hear your heart.” Oh, thank God. She’d worked that out herself. “If I can hear a heart then I won’t think about death and silence.” His arm went around her slim shoulders, as he watched her neck relax and felt her body soften. Shortly, he heard the deep, slow breathing of sleep. Rather later, he stopped reading, and nestled down, keeping her firmly against him where, even in her slumber, she could hear the steady beat of his heart, proving that she was next to life, not looking at a dead man, made lifeless by her hand.

***

She woke, disoriented, and momentarily panicking that her alarm had failed to go off, before she caught up with the fact that she was at Castle’s loft, in Castle’s bed, and that she wasn’t to go to the precinct that day on Pawlowitz’s instruction. Then she remembered why, and shuddered. However, it was, since light was streaming in around the curtains, morning, and she had slept peacefully. The dent where Castle had been was still faintly warm, and she could hear low-voiced discussion coming from the family room or kitchen. She stayed put. Appearing from Castle’s bedroom to any of his family – but especially his daughter – felt uncomfortable.

Some several moments later, Castle’s head poked round the door, and on finding Beckett awake, the rest of his fully dressed body followed. “I’m just going to take Alexis to school,” he said. “Don’t go anywhere, and when I get back we’ll have breakfast and then you can decide what you want to do. I guess you’re off today?”

“Yeah,” she replied. “I’ll be on desk duty for a few days, too. But they gave me today, so I don’t need to go anywhere at all.”

“Tell me about it when I’m back. I need to run.” He disappeared and shortly the sounds of fuss, bustle and closing door were heard. Beckett thought about getting up, but then she thought about how comfortable the bed was; how soft the sheets and plump the pillows were – and didn’t. She curled back down, and luxuriated.

She was still luxuriating – which had the happy effect of coating her brain in a pink fluffy comfort blanket for neurons – when she vaguely heard the front door open and close. Shortly, Castle’s sunny face peeked around the door.

“Are you awake?” he asked.

“Nope, I’m talking to you in my sleep,” she said, and hid under the pillows. She felt the bed move as, presumably, Castle sat down, and shortly the pillows were removed.

“Found you,” he teased. “Stop hiding.”

“Not hiding. Sleeping.”

“Your eyes are open.”

“Still sleeping.”

Castle acquired a suspiciously mischievous smile, leaned down, and kissed her full on the lips. “Wake up, Sleeping Beauty.” He pulled her up to sitting, and kissed her again. “Now you’re awake.” 

She shut her eyes firmly, and accompanied it with a full-lipped, sulky-flirtatious pout. “I’m not.”

“No breakfast, then. Shame. I was going to fix some bacon to go with the pancakes, but I guess you won’t want any.”

“Bacon?” she said hopefully. “I could wake up for bacon.”

“You only wake up to eat?” Castle said, and then smirked evilly. “That could be really interesting if you woke up in the middle of the night.” She blushed furiously. “So do you want bacon?”

“Yes, please. Can I get a shower while you’re cooking?”

“Sure, though what if you need help washing?”

“I’ve been showering since I was a kid. I think I know how to do it by now.”

“But it’s so much more fun with two…”

“Nope.”

“No fun at all.”

“Nope.” She grinned, and eased her legs out of bed. Castle’s eyes locked on to them with missile-guidance-like precision, and watched them every step of the way to the shower. She’d have sworn she heard a disappointed sigh as the bathroom door shut.


	23. Chapter 23

Breakfast, Castle-style, wouldn’t have disgraced Beckett’s special-treat-only diner: laid out on the table were rashers of bacon, pancakes, syrup, fruit, orange juice and coffee.

“Dig in,” Castle said. “I guess you didn’t eat much yesterday?”

“No…” She thought back. “We were too busy to grab lunch, and then I didn’t want dinner.” She didn’t mention the throwing up.

“You must be hungry.” He passed her a plate, and watched beadily till she’d put what he evidently considered enough food on it, which was rather more than she’d ordinarily want. She began to eat, and found that she was ravenously hungry. The full plate became empty in short order.

“Better?” Castle asked.

“Yeah.” She downed her coffee, and refilled her cup; thought for a second or two, and then took some more bacon. “Protein,” she said to his unspoken question. “I’ll have some fruit after.”

“You said you didn’t have to go in today?”

“I’m not to go in today. Pawlowitz – he’s the lead detective – made it right with the Captain.”

“What’ll you do?”

Beckett munched on her bacon, and thought about it. Unfortunately, as soon as her brain started to work, the pervasive memory of yesterday’s events returned. She shuddered, and stopped eating.

“Are you okay?”

“Just… yesterday.”

“Mm.”

“I think I need to do something. Run, maybe. Sweat it out.”

Castle’s eyes glinted naughtily. “I could” –

“No.” She glared at him, but it was a poor effort. “That’s not healthy. That’s depending on you to fix me, and that’s not how I’m going to roll.”

“No rolling?”

“No. I can’t start leaning on someone else to fix my problems. I have to get through this. Me. Otherwise it’ll come back to bite me in the ass at the worst possible moment and you won’t be there to pull me through.”

Castle jammed his lips shut on _I want to be there for you. All the time._

“You were just right last night. You’ll be just right again” – she stopped, and blinked uncertainly – “if you want to be?”

“Yes.”

“But that won’t fix this. I need to move, and maybe that’ll help me see my way through it. But I have to do it myself so that it _is_ fixed.” Her eyes pleaded with him to understand.

“I get it. I don’t much like it – I don’t like seeing you miserable, you know – but I get it. Only” – he looked as uncertain as she had a moment previously – “I’ll be here, okay? I wasn’t planning on walking away. So go run, but come back here after. Please?”

Beckett’s jaw remained in place through sheer force of will. Sure, he’d pushed and pushed for her to agree that they were dating, but…that was a bit of a statement of intent, for a month’s acquaintance and the early stages of a relationship. “Okay,” she squeaked out, and without really noticing, munched the rest of her bacon to prevent having to open her mouth, then did the same with a healthy quantity of fruit. By the time she’d disposed of that, her brain was semi-functional again. “I’ll need to go home, though. I need to get my running kit.”

“And some more clothes,” Castle added.

“Huh?”

“You’re coming back here – you agreed. So you’ll need clean clothes for tomorrow.”

Her neurons now resembled refried beans. “Tomorrow?”

“Don’t you want to stay over again?” he whined, entirely insincere. “I want you to.”

“Uh…” Tomorrow? Again? More? ( _Sex_ , a little voice suggested, which was _not helpful_.)

“C’mon. You do want to, don’t you?” He widened his big blue eyes at her, and did a ridiculously accurate imitation of a pleading puppy. “Don’t you?”

“Yes, but” –

“Great. So pick up some clothes and anything else you need, have your run, and come back here after.”

“Okay,” she said weakly, completely unused to being looked after. “It’ll be a long run, though. I might not be back till after lunchtime.”

“That’s okay, I have to write. My editor is screaming for the next chapters.” He smiled. “You run, I’ll write.” He moved around the table as Beckett stood up to take her plate to the dishwasher, and hugged her. “That’ll keep you warm till you get back.”

She blinked. Then she turned around in his arms, stretched up, and kissed him in a leisurely fashion. “Now I’ll be warm,” she flirted, picked up her bag and left.

As soon as the loft door closed behind her, the events of the previous day returned. She forced them away, walked to the subway, boarded her train, got off at her stop and walked to her apartment, all with a squirming in her abdomen and the memory of the dead, blank eyes before her. She forced her stomach to stillness and peace, telling herself that it would be a terrible waste of an excellent breakfast. The flippancy didn’t help in the slightest, but her stomach stayed put, which was one step better than the day before.

In her apartment, she dumped yesterday’s clothes in the hamper, repacked her bag, including, in an effort to redirect her morbid memories, some flimsy nightwear and pretty underwear; and left it by the door ready to go back to Castle’s loft later. Now _that_ was a thought that calmed her stomach. She changed into running gear, put her running playlist on her iPod, and began to move.

Three miles later, her stomach was still in its place, and the stretch and burn of a long run was settling her mind. The memory was still sharp and jagged, but it was less immediate, and it wasn’t in her mind every single instant. She completed her loop at her apartment, showered and changed into a button-down and flowing dark pants, picked up her bag, and took the subway back to Castle’s.

“You’re back!” Castle exclaimed when he opened the door. “I didn’t” –

“Think I would be? I said I would.” She stepped back, retreating. “But if you didn’t expect me, I’ll go home.” She shouldered her bag, and took another step away from the door towards the elevator.

“Expect you this soon,” Castle said, and firmly took her hand to pull her inside. “Stop running away. You’ve done enough running for one day with your thinking time run.”

Beckett coloured. “Er…” she managed.

“Silly Beckett. You really need to stop thinking that I don’t mean what I’m saying. I mean, okay my reputation is, um, colourful, but it doesn’t mean it’s all true and I certainly wouldn’t lead you into thinking you could come back here if I didn’t mean it.”

“Daddy never invites anyone here,” Alexis added from the stairs, to Castle’s blatant horror. “You must be his girlfriend now.” The two adults blushed fit to start a forest fire.

“Alexis,” Castle managed in a strangulated tone, “what have I told you about interrupting adult conversations?”

The girl frowned. “Don’t. But I didn’t. I was” – she paused – “contri…contri…contributing!”

Beckett choked off a laugh.

“No, you were meddling. Don’t do it, please. It’s not nice.” He smiled at his daughter. “Come and help choose dinner.” All was, apparently, forgiven, though from the blush Alexis was displaying, the rebuke, mild as it had been, had hit its mark.

The three of them decided upon a baked chicken dish, with dessert simply being ice cream. Castle prepared it with brisk efficiency, declining any help: Alexis disappeared to her room, and Beckett sat at the counter and watched, fingers twitching to assist. He popped it into the oven (which resembled something out of Star Trek) and grinned. “Wine? I have a rather nice white here, which will go with dinner, but we could have some now.”

Beckett thought, extremely briefly. “Yes, please.”

Castle opened and poured. “Did you get your thinking done?”

“I guess,” she said doubtfully. “It’s not quite as sharp today. I think I just need time to” – she searched for a word – “um…assimilate emotionally. I _know_ it was the right thing to do, but I don’t _feel_ it was the right thing yet.” She sipped the wine, and then took a bigger mouthful. “It’s such a huge thing.”

“Yeah,” Castle sympathised. “I guess there’s not much bigger – maybe having a baby. Taking or giving life – it can’t get bigger than that.” He regarded her. “It’s why being a homicide detective is important,” he said slowly, working it out as he went. “Because someone's taken a life, wrongfully.”

She stared at him. “I never thought – yes. That’s the core of it.” She smiled at him. “That really helps. If I think of it like that…that helps, somehow.” A weight fell from her shoulders, and she straightened up. “Yeah.”

***

After dinner, Castle dealt with Alexis’s homework, reading, and general stuff, while Beckett contemplated her phone, the next day’s work, and a book which she’d found on Castle’s stuffed shelves. The book won, without making any effort. She sipped the remains of her wine, and read happily until Castle reappeared.

“Alexis is washing and so on,” he said.

“Mm,” Beckett hummed, not really listening. She liked her book.

“Are you okay till I’ve said goodnight?”

“Yes,” she said absently. “No problem.”

“Good.” Castle departed, without Beckett really noticing. She was utterly lost in her book. When Castle returned, he managed to sit down next to her, put an arm around her, and peck a light kiss or two on her hair without any response at all except a getting-comfortable wriggle. He poked her in the ribs.

“Stoppit!” she screeched.

“You’re ticklish.” He smiled evilly. “Finally, a weakness that I can exploit.”

“I’ll make enough noise to wake Alexis.”

“She’s reading. You could put a bomb under her and she wouldn’t notice – a bit like you a minute ago.”

“I’m noticing now. I’m noticing that I’m trained in self-defence and how to neutralise a suspect in seconds. I’m noticing that you aren’t trained. And I’m noticing that you, Richard Castle,” she paused, “are _also_ ticklish.” She attacked on the word, and left him frantically wriggling and squirming, trying and failing to defend himself.

“Well, isn’t this fun?”

“Mother?”

“Martha?”

Beckett tried to hide, blushing desperately.

“Oh, don’t mind me, darlings. Young love – well, middle aged love in your case, Richard” –

“I’m _thirty_ four not fifty four,” he snipped.

“ – is so sweet. I do love a good romance, and you two are just so adorable together. Alexis really could use a mother, though of course I shall do my best to fill the emotional void while your relationship develops.”

Castle recovered his voice. “Mother, I can only assume that you’ve had a liquid afternoon. I think you should go and indulge in some beauty sleep, and stop jumping the gun.”

“But Richard darling, you’ve brought her here. You’ve only ever brought your wife here. You haven’t even brought that Gina person” –

“That _Gina-person_ is my editor.”

“That’s what _you_ think. _She_ wants to be the second” –

“Mrs Tanqueray?” Castle gibed. “Isn’t that your next role?”

“Mrs Richard Castle.” Martha ignored the taunt with aplomb.

“Not happening.”

“That’s a relief. Katherine would be much better for you. Mixing business and pleasure never answers.”

“Mother, much as I appreciate your advice, it’s not necessary or wanted. Now, go sleep off your afternoon’s indulgences – were you renewing old acquaintances or old feuds? – and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I understand,” she said sympathetically. “Three would definitely be a crowd.” 

She swished off upstairs, leaving Castle open-mouthed and Beckett wondering whether she should just crawl into a hole and never, _ever_ come out again.

“I…” Castle began, and failed to think of any good words whatsoever. He stood up, staggered to his study, poured two fingers of whiskey into a glass and knocked it back in one go. “Do you want one?” he belatedly asked.

“Not whiskey, thanks,” she semi-stuttered. “Have you got vodka?”

“Sure,” Castle replied, and poured. “Mixer?”

“Tonic, please.”

“I’m having mine neat. Why did I let Mother come back and live here? She has no filter _at all_.” He sighed. “Please tell me she hasn’t scared you off?”

“I’m still here.”

“You are. Why?”

“She’s not you. Even if you are middle-aged,” she added with a mischievous grin.

“I am _not_. But you’re definitely mean.” He pouted, then batted his eyelashes. “You shouldn’t be mean to me. If you’re mean to me… I…I…I won’t make you coffee!”

“That could be fatal,” Beckett said dryly, “for you.”

“I don’t think I’d like to be dead.”

“You wouldn’t know about it. You’d be dead.”

“Nope.”

Beckett blinked.

“No. I would know about it because I’d be a ghost. That would be seriously cool. I could hang around and find out all sorts of secrets and nobody would know I was there unless I haunted them” –

“Ghosts aren’t real. There’s no such thing as ghosts, just credulous, gullible people.” 

“You really are no fun. There are lots of things that might be real. Just because you can’t touch them doesn’t mean they aren’t there.”

“I believe in firm reality.”

Castle’s expression changed. “Do you? I could provide some firm reality, since you’ve finished your drink.”

“Shouldn’t I stay in the guest room?”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure I can stand any more of your mother’s helpful comments.”

“Oh, don’t worry. She won’t be up till past ten, and she’ll need at least two prairie oysters to cure her headache.” He smirked. “That’ll be my revenge. You won’t get to see it, because you’ll be at work, but I will. I can’t wait.”

Beckett grinned. “Mean.”

“Justified. And I put your bag in my room,” Castle said firmly, and didn’t add _because I really don’t need to have her meddling when I’m just about managing to date you and have you come here without you thinking about it_. _I want you to be thoroughly comfortable with me before I tell you about the other book_. “Now, how about some firm reality, firmly in my bedroom?”

She peeped through her lashes flirtatiously, and smiled seductively. “Sounds like a plan.” A second later she was on her feet and sashaying, with a wicked wiggle of her hips, through the study to the bedroom. Castle, eyes firmly fixed on her ass, followed, and only his knowledge of his own loft’s layout prevented him hitting the doorposts, since he certainly wasn’t paying any attention to his surroundings. He stopped at the door, leaning on the frame, gazing at Beckett, sitting on the end of his bed.

In his bedroom, Beckett was slowly undoing the top button of her shirt, peeking to make sure that Castle was watching. She wouldn’t want him to miss anything, and she certainly wasn’t doing this for her own entertainment. Happily, his eyes were right where she wanted them to be. She undid another button, revealing a sliver of lace bra-edge, and stopped there, fingers at the vee, flirting with the next fastening. Castle’s intent eyes darkened to navy blue, and he took a step towards her.

“Just watch,” she husked, and a pink tongue-tip laved her sensual lips. He moved back to the door frame, so that he didn’t need to show her that he expected to be weak at the knees very shortly, and fixed his gaze upon her, heat building in the bedroom. Slowly, slowly, she slipped another button; then another. More lace appeared, but she didn’t spread the shirt apart to show him more: the fragment he could see was teasingly erotic. Another button opened: her hands were moving downwards to her waist.

She stopped undoing buttons. Castle couldn’t prevent his disappointed noise, at which she smiled sultrily. “Patience,” she murmured, which was an invitation all of its own, and stood up. Her hands went to her belt buckle, which opened, and the button of her pants. The zipper zinged downward, she wiggled, and the pants puddled on the floor. Castle drew in breath, rock hard and ready, but he didn’t move. She was the epitome of eroticism: every move an invitation, every reveal a seduction; entrancing him. She crossed one elegant, endless leg over the other, and removed the sock, exchanged legs and repeated, finishing with her knees primly together. Primness didn’t erase the fleeting glimpse of dark green, lacy panties; and when Castle looked back up to the opened buttons of the shirt, he could see that the edge of lace covering the swelling curves was also dark, dark green. Matching. Oh, wow. Because it hadn’t been matching before now. Toning, sure. But this seduction had been _planned_. 

The last button of Beckett’s shirt fell apart. She breathed a little more deeply, and the edges of the shirt parted, opening over her small, firm breasts, but still mostly concealing. Her shoulders flexed, and the shirt fell away, leaving her in lace bra and matching panties, dark against her cream skin: perfect contrast to highlight her taut muscles and lean limbs.

“Like what you see?” she breathed.

“So much. You’re beautiful.”

“Wanna finish the job?”

He was on her in two fast strides: large and predatory, consumed by desire, taking her mouth, standing between her legs and then pushing her backwards so that he lay over her, pressing against the greedy space between her legs.

“You’re overdressed,” she said, when he moved from her mouth, and tried to reach his shirt buttons. Obligingly, he lifted a fraction so that she could reach, though he didn’t stop nibbling his way around her neck for an instant. The shirt opened within that same instant, and Beckett arched up and rubbed soft mounds against hard pecs, while her naughty hands attacked his belt and zipper, opening them and pushing his pants from his excellent ass. Then she squeezed. He yipped, and nipped her neck chidingly, then soothed the tiny sting with his tongue.

“Naughty,” he purred. “I like naughty. So many opportunities for creativity.” He promptly proved his creativity – and the talents of his mouth and fingers – on her lace-clad breasts, lipping and suckling until she began to pant and gasp, lifting her hips against him and rubbing. He smiled wolfishly and slid a hand beneath her to unhook her bra, lifting it away and returning to the now naked peaks. “See, I could get really creative with these.” He demonstrated. She knotted her hands in his hair and moaned. “Or I could be a little creative…elsewhere.”

“Tease,” Beckett panted.

“Yes, and don’t you just love it?” Castle rasped into the valley between her breasts, and kissed down her sternum.

“Ohhhhh,” was her only reply, as he reached her navel and kept on downward.

“These are pretty,” he commented. “I like the lace. I especially like the way it pretends to reveal and tantalises by concealing. You matched them today, didn’t you?”

“Mmm,” she hummed.

“I like matching. I like you in – or preferably out – of any underwear, but matching is particularly seductive. Thinking of _out_ …” He knelt up between her parted legs, moved to the side, and slowly rolled her panties down and away, kicked his pants off and slid his own boxers down; leaving them both proudly naked and utterly aroused. She reached for his shoulders, but he shrugged her off. “I’ve got a theory,” he smirked. “My theory is that you wanted to seduce me. You succeeded, but now I’m going to seduce you.” His smirk turned to a thoroughly predatory smile. “You’ll love it.”

He fell to.

She tasted of desire and heat and heaven, wet and wanton, soaked and saying his name, over and over till it became a thin high cry of release, and then he slipped up beside her and spooned her in, hard against her backside, and then slid himself across her dampness and waited. She sighed sensually, and then wiggled, turned, took him in hand to sheathe him with a condom from the nightstand, and slid down on to him. He groaned, deep in his chest, and rolled them to rise above her and thrust home, deep-seated within her, held tight by clenching muscle and her hands locked on his back.

She rolled them over, to be above him, small tight breasts peaked, a flush from cheek to ribs, eyes locked on his – and in them, he saw something more than he’d expected; something that she didn’t know – something he couldn’t stand to lose. She had to stay with him. She rode him to completion, and came herself, and when she collapsed over his chest, he wrapped her in as if he’d never let her go again.


	24. Chapter 24

Beckett’s muted alarm nevertheless woke Castle along with Beckett herself, who didn’t so much bounce out of bed as groan, try to hide under the comforter, and finally poke a toe out, followed by both long legs and a lean torso. All of those items were stark naked. Consequently, Castle bounced out of bed in an extremely, and evidently, happy mood which lasted right up till he realised that she’d locked the bathroom door against him. This did not seem fair _at all_. He slipped back into bed, and, well, sulked, eyes firmly on the bathroom door in hope of more naked Beckett.

Beckett emerged, fully dressed and made up, in a remarkably short time. She swung over to the bed, disinterred Castle from his comforter and pillows, and kissed him long, deep and slow.

“I have to go to work,” she purred. “But that’ll keep you warm.”

He stared at her. “That should be _my_ line. You’re _twenty-four_ and you’re stealing _my lines_.”

“Are you complaining?”

“No, but you’re” –

“Female?” she snarked.

“ _Mean_ , stealing my lines. Who’s the writer here?” Castle snarked back. “Anyway, now what am I supposed to do? You’re leaving me all hot and bothered and you don’t care.” He pouted.

“I care about getting to work on time.”

“You owe me,” he said. “You owe me a date.”

“You can come by at shift end like usual.”

“No, no. A proper date. Not just dinner because you’ve answered all my questions. Movie, or the theatre, or something, and a nice meal without any procedural questions.”

Beckett regarded him with deep and (though she didn’t know it) wholly justifiable suspicion, scenting a catch but not able to locate it. The catch wasn’t the date. It was the spending the night with her afterward.

“C’mon. You can choose the movie.”

“Okay. I have to go. See you.” She was gone on the word, and Castle heard the outer door shut. 

He took a leisurely but sadly lonely shower, and then dressed and started making breakfast. Once he’d taken Alexis to school, he sat down to write, and found that his new rookie detective was far more interesting and productive than Storm. Alive to the possibilities for mayhem and disaster if he didn’t finish Storm, though, he promised himself that he could write his detective once he’d finished two chapters of Storm, and put his head down to work in a way that would have amazed everyone who thought they knew him.

Crashing and a certain amount of low-volume misery dragged him from his writing, and when he checked his watch he found that it was certainly time for more coffee, though a little early for lunch. He found his mother in the kitchen, clearly hungover.

“Let me make you a hangover cure,” Castle said with a delicate tinge of malice. “Do you remember much about yesterday?”

“I remember perfectly. You had your lovely detective here. Where is she?”

“She’s at work. You know, that thing that pays people’s bills.”

“She went home?” his mother said disappointedly.

“Yes.” Castle lied without compunction. He did _not_ need to have his mother ‘helping’. He could manage his own affairs very nicely, thank you. “Here’s your drink.”

Martha regarded it balefully. “Really?”

“Drink it.”

She closed her eyes and gulped it down in half a second, made an evil face and turned green. “What _was_ that? I’ve had kale and nettle health drinks that tasted better.”

“Prairie oyster,” Castle said blandly.

“Ugh,” his mother managed. “Vile, darling. Vile.”

“Has it helped?”

“I’ll let you know when my stomach stops folding.”

“Go back to bed,” Castle suggested. “I have to write anyway.”

“I can’t.”

Castle lifted his eyebrows.

“I have an audition at two, and it will take me all my time till then to fully inhabit the character.”

He gaped. “An audition? That’s great! Break a leg, Mother.” He knew better than to say _Good Luck_. His mother was as superstitious as most actors. “What’s the part?”

“Queen Gertude, in a modern adaptation of Hamlet.”

“Great,” Castle said again. “When you get it, when will rehearsals start?”

“Oh, immediately.”

Castle managed to preserve a blandly cheerful expression, while simultaneously cheering his mother’s absence and worrying that he would need to put Rina on permanent retainer. Or, of course, Beckett could spend more time at the loft. The idea of simply not spending nearly every evening together didn’t pierce his thoughts, mostly because he didn’t allow it to.

“Do you want another?” he asked, gesturing at her empty glass.

She shuddered dramatically. “No, thank you. I am suitably cured.” She exited regally, clearly already attempting to inhabit her part. Castle made his coffee and returned to his writing, finishing his Storm chapters and then, with more enthusiasm, adding another two chapters to his untitled new story.

***

Beckett arrived at the precinct and was greeted with more enthusiasm than at any point since she’d made detective. Phrases such as ‘Good job’ were thrown around, and it became apparent that having taken the shot and made it count had, in some strange way, made her part of the team. Many of them had never fired at another human being, and those cops were keen to know how it had felt. Beckett gritted her teeth, controlled her visceral revulsion at the memory, and answered their questions with grace, though without hiding how awful it had been and how sick she’d felt afterwards. She wasn’t stupid enough to miss the opportunity to become an accepted part of the bullpen, rather than the jumped-up, promoted far too fast, teacher’s pet, rookie detective.

By lunchtime, the atmosphere around her had changed. She was, now, an accepted _cop_ , included in the banter and the black humour. Unconsciously, she relaxed, and although she was limited to admin duties, she found that even those passed more quickly in the camaraderie of the bullpen.

After lunch, however, Montgomery summoned her, with Pawlowitz.

“Detectives,” he said bleakly.

“Sir,” they said in unison. 

“Whether justified or not, a police shooting is not a matter for pleasure.”

“No, sir.”

“I expect that you will reflect on your actions, and consider whether there was any other way of dealing with the situation.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Detective Beckett!”

“Sir?”

“What do you think could have been done differently?”

She didn’t answer immediately, considering the case. “Once we went to execute the warrant, nothing, sir. The suspect started shooting as soon as we were outside the door and announced ourselves. He didn’t wait for us to break the door down if he didn’t open it. So we were in a life-threatening situation as soon as we got there.” She paused. “We couldn’t leave him to destroy evidence and run.”

“A fair point,” Montgomery said judicially, and became less stern. “And beforehand?”

She flicked a quick, nervous glance at Pawlowitz, who gave her an encouraging half-smile. “I guess…we could have put surveillance on the apartment and executed the warrant if he went out? But…he could still have spent time destroying the evidence, so” – she straightened up – “I think we didn’t have a choice. Once we knew enough to get a warrant we couldn’t wait.”

Pawlowitz’s smile broadened. “Good girl,” he murmured.

“Nice analysis, Beckett,” Montgomery said. “Maybe there were things that could have been done differently, but second-guessing yourself is a mug’s game. Sure, review, but don’t brood over it. You need to walk the line between shooting too late – or not at all – and shooting far too soon. You made the right call.”

“I only did what Pawlowitz taught me,” Beckett said, truthfully.

Montgomery smiled. “Learning from your lead detective is always a good plan. Pay attention to them.” He became serious again. “The shooting team will report in a couple more days. Desk duty for the pair of you till that happens – but I don’t wanna see you in here one minute past shift end before then. Take the time. And if you need to – go see the department shrink. About two-thirds of cops who take a kill shot do that. You’ll be in the majority if you do.”

“Sir,” they said again.

“Dismissed, detectives.”

“Thank you, sir,” Pawlowitz said. Beckett merely nodded. They left.

“You did good in there,” Pawlowitz said.

“I just told the truth.”

“That’s doing good. You could have weaselled or come up with some bullshit set of reasons why you should’ve done something different when, truth is, there were no good choices once we were in the situation.”

She stared at him.

“What is it, Beckett? You look like I swung at you with a two-by-four.”

“Oh… just what you said. You’re right.” She grinned at him. “You just confirmed something I’ve been thinking – not about the job. About other stuff. Thanks.”

“I don’t know what I said, but happy to help.”

Beckett returned to her desk and the paperwork, light of heart. Somehow, Pawlowitz’s comment that there were _no good choices once we were in the situation_ had hit the last remaining worry about her father. Coupled with Castle’s commentary in her diary, she finally realised that she’d made the least bad choice in a situation where she had no good choices. Later, she promised herself, she’d make some quiet enquiries and find out where her father was. Not contact him, though. No. That would ruin everything she’d done in the last days. Just…know that he’d really done it, and then wait. But she’d done the right thing, and now she had confirmation.

Filled with cheer, she sent Castle a brief text. _Got to leave on the dot. Want to get dinner? KB_

Shortly, he replied. _No babysitter. Come over, and I’ll cook. RC. PS: bring your overnight bag?_

 _:)_ she sent back. The rest of the day passed in a contented haze, and she left on the stroke of shift end, went home, packed her small bag (again) and swung off to Castle’s loft. 

Soon, going to Castle’s for dinner had become habit, though Beckett, conscious of Alexis’s regard, refused to come more than twice a week, and made sure she was gone before Alexis woke. She really didn’t want to answer a bright ten-year old’s questions, especially when she didn’t want to think about the answers herself.

So the month passed. Martha had won her part, and rehearsal and then performances kept her largely out of the way, which suited Beckett just fine. Martha was entertaining, but obtrusive questioning should remain in Interrogation and be done by Beckett, not be inflicted on Beckett over dinner.

***

Beckett was comfortably curled up on Castle’s couch, cuddled in the crook of his arm, just over a month since she’d cut her father loose and he’d gone to rehab, when he coughed uncomfortably. Alexis was long in bed; his mother was out. There was no reason whatsoever for uncomfortable coughs, and any reason that there could have been was thoroughly ominous.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Uh…I want you to read something.”

Read something? What did that have to do with uncomfortable coughs? She fixed him with a hard stare, which failed – unaccountably – to produce answers. “Okay,” she said. “Where’s this something?”

“I’ll go get it.”

Castle ambled off to his study, and returned with a pile of paper. “This,” he said.

“That’s – that looks like a manuscript.” 

“Uh, yes. But it hasn’t gone to my editor. I want you to read it first, before anything else happens to it.” He looked at her, eyes shining with sincerity, face completely serious. “If you don’t like it, or don’t want it to exist, I’ll delete it and shred that copy. You can watch me do it.”

“Castle… what is this?”

“Just read it. Please? If you wanna take it home and read it, that’s fine. But read it?”

Take it home and read it? That…didn’t sound good. Beckett regarded Castle closely as he stood, shifting from foot to foot. “You would rather I went home and read this, if I don’t want to read it here, than stay tonight?”

Castle looked as if there might be no right answer to that. There probably wasn’t. “Um, well, of _course_ I want you to stay. I always want you to stay and it’s totally unfair that you won’t stay every night.”

“I can’t,” she said, as she said every time. Castle pouted, as he did every time. “But you didn’t answer the question.”

“This being a fast-learning detective is really very unkind, you know. You shouldn’t use it on me.”

“What should I use on you?” she flirted.

“I could think of lots of things, but I _really_ want you to read that manuscript. Please will you, Beckett?”

Beckett, by now, couldn’t have been more worried. It was so clearly vitally important to Castle that she read it, but she was more and more nervous about what it might be.

“Okay. But if it’s that important, I’m going home to read it. Otherwise I’ll know you’re watching me and looking for reactions.”

“I” –

“ _So_ would.”

“Yes, okay. I would. But I’d try not to.”

“Not good enough. If you want me to read it tonight – or start it,” she added, looking at the size of the pile of paper – “ then I’ll have to go home.”

“I _want_ you to stay. But you have to read it. So…” He pulled her up to him, and kissed her deeply. “If you won’t do it here, I guess you’ll have to go home.” He made a face. “It’s not fair. You only stay twice a week, and now you’re depriving me.”

“You’re trying to delay me,” Beckett said. “You want me to read but you don’t want me to read? What is this? Bad erotic fiction?” A horrible suspicion dawned on her. “Am _I_ a character in this manuscript?”

“Can I plead the Fifth?”

Her face blanked. “I said I didn’t want to be a character.”

“Just go read it, please? Before you make any decisions.”

“Yes,” she said, not showing her consternation. She couldn’t decide what to do. She didn’t _want_ to be a character. But looking at his desperate – though he was trying frantically to hide it – face: there was more to this than she knew. “Okay,” she agreed again.

Castle kissed her again, pouring out passion and terror into her mouth. “Whatever you think, come back. _Please_ come back.”

“Okay.” But she didn’t say when, which Castle, from his eyes and tight-shut lips against a barrage of words, noticed.

The thud of the door closing behind her felt very final.

***

Once home, she made herself a coffee, put a small glass of vodka beside it, thanked her stars that she was off shift tomorrow – which Castle, of course, had known. That must be why he’d chosen tonight to give her it. A sharp detective mind told her that he must have been writing this for some time: but that he’d both hidden it and waited until it was finished. She didn’t know what to think: angry at his deceit, astonished that he’d given her total veto over the next steps. He’d expect it to be the next best-seller: he sold millions, after all. And yet he _said_ – and she believed – that he’d ditch it wholesale if she asked him to.

She took a strengthening sip of vodka and a large gulp of coffee, and began to read.

The sky lightened; her coffee long cold beside her and the vodka undrunk. Morning had broken, and Beckett had read for hours, straight through from end to end. It had been…compelling. She didn’t know whether to be furious or flattered: the main character was her, but it wasn’t her; drew from all her thoughts and comments and emotions and experiences, but didn’t _copy_ them: changed them and fictionalised them.

It was brilliant: superb writing, drawing her in. She couldn’t have stopped reading if there had been an explosion. It was bound to be a huge success – if it were ever published. She held the eggshell of his creativity in her hands, and it was in her gift to shatter it or save it.

Now she had to decide what to do. He’d gone against everything she’d said. And yet…it was _based_ on her, but it wasn’t _her_ : it was a fictional character. Her head hurt. 

She set her teeth, put the pages in her purse, and went to shower and then to bed, just as the sun rose. It was going to be a beautiful early summer day, but her world was shadowed and grey.

Beckett woke, finding it to be almost lunchtime. She had to give Castle a decision. She didn’t want to decide. She shouldn’t _have_ to decide. And yet, she understood why he had given her control over this book: because she’d said she didn’t want to be a character. He was letting her decide whether she _was_ a character. She drank a strong coffee, and got no further.

Finally, she bit the bullet, and tapped out a text. No point delaying.

***

Back in the loft, Castle had paced the floor till his feet hurt, and then tried and failed to sleep. Eventually, he’d spent most of the night playing shoot-‘em-up computer games and fretting, in approximately a one-to-ten ratio. Somehow, he managed to take Alexis to school, but then sank into depressed solitude. With every hour in which Beckett neither returned nor called him, he became more and more convinced that he’d never see her again.

He couldn’t not have written it, though. Once it was in his head, he had to write it: it hammered at his sanity until it was out there: letters on the pages. He had to have written it. It would kill him to ditch it, because it was _great_. Far better than Storm: it would be a sensational success.

But it wouldn’t be worth it if he didn’t have Beckett.

Finally, almost at lunchtime, his phone chirped with a text. _Can I come over now? KB_

 _Yes_ , he sent back by return. _I’ll make lunch. RC_

There was no answer.

He threw together a nice chicken salad with arugula and chopped figs, which didn’t require higher brain function, put a bottle of white wine in the fridge, and paced the floor until the door sounded.


	25. Chapter 25

She didn’t come in with her gun drawn and pointed at his head, which had been a definite possibility, which was one plus. On the other hand, she wasn’t falling into his arms and kissing him passionately, which was a definite and substantial minus. He gazed at her, noting the small signs of the lack of a full night’s sleep; eyes then travelling back up to her face. She looked wholly serious, but not – yet – murderous.

“Here’s your manuscript,” she said, reaching into her purse and handing it over. He put it down on the table. “Some of your procedural stuff is wrong.”

Castle boggled at her. “Say what?”

It was the last thing he’d expected to hear, from his dumbfounded face. “Your procedural details. They’re wrong.”

It wasn’t what she’d meant to say. Then again, she hadn’t got the faintest idea what she’d meant to say. Seeing him, desperate, clearly sleepless, and worried; but still the table laid for lunch with two wine glasses; though he couldn’t have been sure that she’d stay more than the instant it would take to throw the manuscript at him and tell him to burn it and never contact her again – seeing his expression of mingled terror and frantic hope…

She wouldn’t shatter the eggshell. She couldn’t destroy him. Them.

“It doesn’t mean I’m not angry with you,” she said, not angrily at all, though she meant to be. “But…she’s not me. She’s herself.” She stopped. Castle’s face held an expression that she was dead certain sure she wasn’t meant to see: as if she’d seen straight into his soul. Relief, hope, and something more.

“I thought you’d say scrap it all,” he whispered, and took the two strides necessary to reach her. “I really thought…but I had to let you.” He gathered her in, and leaned on her: the pattern of his breathing hinting at fought-back tears. “It would have killed me to destroy it.”

“It would have destroyed you. And then us,” she murmured. “And she’s _not me_. Just enough not me for it to be… not okay, but bearable. I can deal with it.” 

He buried his face in her hair, and clung to her, unspeaking but shuddering. She slid her arms around him, and hung on as, mutually, they moved to the couch: lunch neglected on the table.

After a while, the silence was broken by a thunderous noise from Castle’s empty stomach, which prompted them to unfurl from each other – marginally.

“There’s lunch. Chicken salad, French bread, white wine if you want it,” Castle said. “I think I’d better eat.”

“Yeah.” Beckett realised that she was hungry too. “Let’s eat.”

Nothing important was said during their delayed lunch, but Castle was evidently thinking. A small crease developed between his brows, and his eyes were turned inwards. Eventually he spoke.

“I got the procedural stuff wrong? Which bits? How? I thought I’d been so careful.”

“Uh…” Beckett said, suddenly recognising the look in Castle’s eye as the one he’d had when his inspiration had hit _in her bed_ and he’d seen nothing and nobody outside of his own skull until he’d written it down.

“You have to show me where so I can get it right,” he said. “I’ll go get my laptop and you can show me on the printout and I’ll edit.”

“Uh, what?”

“You show me and I’ll edit, if you tell me how it _should_ be. It needs to be right, so let’s correct it now.” He was quivering on the chair, on the verge of dashing to his study, totally focused on his story. “Come on.”

When she didn’t instantly move – since she was still eating her salad – he grabbed her free hand and tugged. 

“I haven’t finished!” she complained.

“You can do this and eat.”

“ _You_ bring the laptop and the document. I’m not moving.”

“Okay then.” He raced off, and raced back with the laptop, whipping up the paper pages as he returned. “Right. Where was the first problem?”

“Hold on. Don’t you need to get Alexis from school?”

Castle paled, and checked his watch. “Not yet,” he exhaled. “I’ll set an alarm so I don’t miss it.”

Beckett stared at him. Evidently he was going to spend the entire time with her dredging from her brain every procedural error he’d made – and correcting it. This…well, she hadn’t expected anything, but Castle in full forward writing mode resembled – and was almost as stoppable as – an M1 Abrams tank. He really _was_ setting an alarm. Dear God, what had she gotten herself into here? She breathed in, and out again. Easiest, she decided, to ride the storm, and started to flip pages with her non-fork-wielding hand.

“Okay…” she said. “Page forty-six” – and they began.

Part way through, Castle’s phone rang, and he disappeared. Beckett took a very necessary break, but when she returned, he was grinning. “That was the PI,” he said. “Got the sonofabitch – police picked him up this morning in LA. Papers on their way to the prosecutor now. Mother will be delighted, though the money’s gone. But revenge is very sweet.”

“Great,” Beckett congratulated, intending to reward him with a kiss, but Castle was already returning to the manuscript. “Okay, next,” he said, his entire focus back on his book.

***

Castle’s alarm went off, and both of them jumped.

“I have to go get Alexis,” he said. She shifted. “Don’t go. I won’t be long. Can you mark the next few mistakes on your copy so we can find them faster?” Yet again, she stared. “I don’t want you to go home. I want you to stay – oh.” His face fell. “You didn’t bring a bag.” It lightened again. “I know! You go home and get your overnight bag, while I pick up Alexis, and then we can carry on and all have dinner.” 

“Uh…okay,” Beckett said weakly.

“Great. We’re getting on really well. It won’t take long.”

Beckett doubted that. They’d been going for – wow, over an hour – and they’d got from page forty-six to page one hundred. Of four hundred. At this rate (she thought for a second) there were another five-plus hours to go – with Castle buzzing like a bumble bee on crack cocaine, extracting every last tiny detail from her neurons – even ones she hadn’t known she knew. It was – _he_ was – worse than Montgomery, pre-promotion, grilling her on everything she might need to know as a detective.

Still, staying the night sounded good. “Okay,” she said. “Okay.” 

Castle enveloped her in a huge bear hug. “Thank you,” he breathed. “Thank you. I…I knew it was a huge risk that I’d lose you, but I had to tell you.”

“Why wait?”

Castle stopped. “Uh, um…I knew I had to tell you sometime but sometimes things just fizzle out or don’t work out well and if it never came to anything there would be no problem…so I put it off till it was done.”

“I see,” Beckett said, neither approving nor disapproving.

“I’d better get gone,” Castle said. “Take a key.” He rootled in a drawer and tossed her a key, which Beckett caught. “What?” he said. “If there’s something delaying me – teacher discussion – then you can get in rather than standing in the hallway.”

“Urp,” Beckett muttered inelegantly, and tried not to be shocked at how easily Castle had simply – broken another barrier. She’d refused to take a key for weeks, and here it was in her hand with no way of refusing that didn’t look spitefully, childishly, _stupidly_ nasty.

Forty minutes of infuriatingly slow subway later, Beckett had made it back to her apartment. Fortunately, packing a bag was rapid. Unfortunately, during the halting journey, she’d had far too much time to think, and the thought that wouldn’t leave her mind was _oh shit this will really blow my chances of friends in the bullpen_. They’d all know the character was based on her, and…being famous – or more likely notorious – wasn’t going to make her any friends with people with whom she might want to be friends. There would, no doubt at all, be plenty of people who would try to cosy up to her in the hope of fame.

She’d made her decision when she’d told him he’d made mistakes with procedure. Right now, though, the implications crashed down over her. She’d be a marked woman for the rest of her days with the NYPD. It _wasn’t her_ – but would anyone actually believe that?

She had to talk to him about this. Without thinking, she picked up her bag and, this time, took her cruiser back to Castle’s, so that she had it ready for the morning. Going up in the elevator, she had no idea how to start this conversation either – except that she certainly was _not_ having it in front of Alexis. Maybe by later in the evening she’d have thought of a way to put it that didn’t make her look like an _it’s-all-about-meeeee!_ overdramatic spoilt brat.

She entirely failed to realise that she was thinking of this as a problem they could deal with _together_ , which was another barrier crumbling.

Before trying the key, she tapped on the door, but hearing nothing – despite the length of time she’d taken – unlocked it and went in, not without a frisson of discomfort. She put her bag in Castle’s room, and went back to the manuscript, making herself a coffee and then starting where they’d left off: marking each mistake as he’d asked; forcing herself to skim read to find them and not to read the whole book again. She was horrified how hard that was. Concentrating hard, she didn’t hear the door open and Castle’s swift shush of Alexis.

She jerked upward with a swiftly-strangled exclamation when he laid a hand on her shoulder.

“It’s me.”

“Oh. Right.” She shook her head to clear it.

“Hi, Detective Beckett,” Alexis said, wandering up. “Have you come for dinner?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I like it when you’re here.” The girl’s gaze fell on the papers. “That’s Daddy’s manuscript! Why are you reading it? He never lets anyone read his manuscripts till Gina sees them – he’ll be really angry with you.” She turned. “Daddy! Detective Beckett’s reading your manuscript!”

“Yes, I know. I asked her to.”

“But you _never_ ” –

“Research, pumpkin. Detective Beckett is correcting my mistakes around police procedure.” He cast a glance at the latest page. “And it looks like there were more of them than I thought.”

“But Storm doesn’t” – Alexis evidently got it. “A _new_ book? Not Storm? Wow. What will Gina say?”

“It’s not up to Gina. And that’s not something you need to worry about. Now, how about you set the table and Detective Beckett can help me make dinner?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“What do you want me to do?” Beckett asked. 

“Can you chop mushrooms and onions, and I’ll chop the meat and the bacon after I’ve put some rice on?”

“Okay.” Beckett was handed a small, sharp knife, and began to chop. Shortly, she had a small pile of neatly sliced vegetables. “Anything else?”

“Garlic.” That took little longer. Castle was competently cooking the chopped bacon, to which he added the onions.

“Would you like a drink?” he asked – and her phone chirped.

“Can I just check this?”

“Sure.”

Beckett slipped off to a corner in case it was the precinct calling her in, and then gulped and disappeared through the study to the en-suite of Castle’s room, where she locked the door against the world and stared, paralysed, at the screen. Then she threw up until there was only bile.

_Katie. Rehab’s been really hard. But I finally got my seven day chip. It’s taken me six attempts, but I made it. You were right. Don’t answer this. I need something to aim for, and it’s seeing you when I deserve to. That’s not now. Please, Katie, don’t. As soon as I’ve made it far enough through, I’ll call you. I love you, Bug._

She fought back the tears until they were vanquished, rinsed her mouth until she couldn’t taste the acid bite of vomit traces, and wiped her face. She couldn’t do anything about the now-missing make-up, and Castle was bound to notice – but he wouldn’t say anything in front of Alexis. Oh. Alexis was observant, and she would likely notice. That wouldn’t save her from the inquisition later, though. Hang on. Misery had made her stupid. She had make-up in her overnight bag. She could paint on her normal face, and Castle wouldn’t know.

He would. But he wouldn’t be _sure_ , so he’d have to wait, and there would be nothing for Alexis to notice. She redid her make-up, flushed the toilet once more and then sprayed some air freshener around, and went back out. She badly wanted her diary, to write it out: her hope and her hurt.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” Castle said, his back to her as he stirred the dish.

“Great.”

He turned around, and his eyes widened, but he kept his mouth shut, all through dinner and beyond, till Alexis was abed and they were alone.

“Do you want paper and a pen?” he asked, to her flabbergasted face.

“I…yes. But…”

“Obviously it’s your dad. You’ve heard – something.” She swiped her phone on, and shoved it at him. One fast flick of eyes later, Castle simply hauled her into him and held her firmly. “Just stay here. It’s a hell of a thing to deal with.” She slumped against his chest. “When you’re ready – if you want to – I’ll find you a pen and paper. Or you can go home, if you want to.” Her head shook in negation. She stayed silent and chillingly still for some time.

Finally she stirred. “There’s something else. Not just Dad, though…” She sniffed, and forced back misery. “The book. You’ve based her on me. The bullpen’s all going to be watching and waiting and wondering… I’m the newest rookie. It’s going to destroy any chance of me being accepted, just as I’d won a place there.”

Castle thought for a moment. “What do you know about publishing timescales?” he eventually asked.

“Nothing. It’s not normally a key point for a cop.”

“Mm,” he said. “It takes up to two years from first draft to hitting the bookstands. And my next book is a Storm – there’s one just about to be released, the next one in late editing, another one that Gina – my editor – is just starting on, and the Storm I’m writing now.” 

She gaped at him. “Huh?”

“It takes ages. I never knew how long it took when I was dreaming of making it,” he reminisced. “But it really does. Black Pawn publish one of mine every six to nine months or so, which is why there are so many in the process, but…no matter where the new one goes, it won’t go anywhere for nearly two years. And we can delay that by submitting this Storm first, and keeping this one back. In two years, or a bit longer, you won’t be the new rookie and you’ll have a reputation of your own.”

“Really?”

“Yep. You can Google the process, if you don’t believe me.”

“No, I do, it’s just…” She trailed off, and leaned on him again. “I don’t need to worry about that?”

“No.” He dropped a soft kiss on her hair. “Do you want a pen and paper?”

“Yes,” she said. “Please.”

_Dear Diary. Dad’s trying. But he says he doesn’t want to see me or hear from me. He says it’s because he doesn’t deserve to until he’s done more, but…what if that’s just an excuse? What if he just doesn’t want to see me because I abandoned him?_

_But he’s trying to get dry. He’s tried and tried, again and again. And he’s made it seven days for the first time in five years. He must have a reason. And why lie to me now, when he could just have stayed away?_

_I can hardly bear to hope, but I can’t help hoping. He’s really trying._

The ink blotted and spread. Her head drooped. Castle came out from his editorial haze and plucked her away from the table, cossetting her and then cradling her in until the storm passed and she was still and soft in his arms.

“Bedtime, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Let it go till the morning.” She gave an assenting little hum, and uncurled from his embrace.

“I think he really wants to,” she said, taking Castle’s hand. “But I still can’t bear to hope.”

“It’s okay. He has to make it for himself.” He tipped her face up, and kissed the unhappy line of her mouth. “You’ve tried. He wouldn’t have it till you left, and now he’s trying. You did the right thing – the least bad choice when there were no good choices in the situation.”

“That’s what Pawlowitz said about the shooting,” she said thoughtfully. “Once I was in the situation, there were no good choices left, so I made the best one I could out of a bad lot. You’re all saying the same thing.” She paused, and began to find her nightwear in her bag, her face hidden. “Usually,” she said, apparently irrelevantly, “I don’t listen – no, I don’t _trust_ – people’s words. People lie to cops, whether they’re guilty or innocent. So the words aren’t nearly as important as the actions and the evidence. That’s how it is – was – with Dad. Whatever he was saying, it was what he was _doing_ that mattered.” She straightened up, a handful of silky, navy fabric flowing from her fingers. “What he was doing was drinking, whatever he said. Till now.”

Her face was still hidden. “When I lost my diary, I’d given up hope. Everything was wrong: Dad, Mom – I still want to find her killer, but I can’t kill myself doing it, and that’s what I was doing – I was the new kid on the team and it wasn’t comfortable so work wasn’t right either and then Montgomery caught me in Archives and told me if I carried on he’d bench me and I couldn’t bear that. I was right at the bottom. I just wanted to give up. Throw it all in and…” She stopped. “I don’t know. Whether I would have or not. But I was thinking about it.”

Castle watched her from his seat on the bed, not touching her. She had to get this out, whatever she was about to say.

“And then you turned up.” She paused, and turned round, an odd light in her eyes. “I’d read all your books, because my mom had them, and…they kept her close even though she was gone. You were just like the picture. But after you showed up, everything changed. What you wrote in my diary – for the first time, I felt like someone actually cared. It made the difference. Someone thought I mattered, when even my dad was showing that I didn’t.” She coloured delicately. “And then you weren’t who your PR said you were. You were happy, and, well…you made me happier.”

She took the few steps towards him, and stood there, before him, navy fabric in her hand, a sheen on her eyes but a smile on her lips.

“But it all started with what you wrote in my diary. Your words. Your words saved me,” she said, and kissed him.

***

**_Epilogue_ **

_Dear Diary. Today is my wedding day, and my sober Dad will walk me down the aisle to Castle. I couldn’t be happier. His words saved me, and now saying ‘I love you’ and ‘I do’ to him are all the words I’ll ever need._

**_Fin._ **


End file.
